A Price To Be Paid
by Sparks
Summary: "What is your price? Please, tell me. I mean it. I will give anything that is mine to give, if it will save my people." "Alright, dearie," he says softly. "My price is you."
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

Notes: I owe a debt to A Bed of Thorns, on AO3. I began this…probably just after that began to be posted. I'd thought about writing something along these lines before that, but Nym's wonderful story definitely influenced my decision to write this. However any similarities beyond the basic premise are unintentional.

Summary: "What is your price? Please, tell me. I mean it. I will give anything that is mine to give, if it will save my people." "Alright, dearie," he says softly. "My price is you."

* * *

It's not midnight when Belle calls for him. Midnight would be too early; there would still be too many people moving around the castle, or not quite asleep in their beds. She waits until her candle burns two further hour marks down, and then she slips out of bed, goes to the window, and calls his name. Three times, just like the stories say.

Nothing happens, and Belle tries again, and again, not daring to call too loudly for fear of being discovered. Her maid Sarah is sleeping in the outer room, and she sleeps lightly.

Nothing happens, and Belle's desperation grows. It's cold, and it's late, and she longs for her bed, but she knows this is their only choice now. She knows that if her village is to be spared, she has to call him and wait for him to come.

The stories say he always comes when he's called by somebody in need. Somebody desperate, and Belle is desperate beyond words.

But he doesn't come, and Belle leans against the cold stone walls, stares out of the window at the darkness. There's a light on the castle walls where a sentry stands, a torch burning through the darkness, and it blurs as tears form in her eyes.

"Now now, dearie, crying won't solve anything."

Belle jumps, whirls around even as she lifts a hand to brush away the tears. He's here – Rumplestiltskin, leaning against her bedpost and watching her with a wicked grin. Belle swallows her cry of fear, because she has no right to be afraid when she was the one to call him, and takes him in. Her room is lit by just a few candles, but it's enough to see him by. Leather clothing, a coat that's – she thinks it's made of dragon-hide, but it's been so long since anyone in her village had the money for such luxuries. His skin is oddly-pigmented, a green-brown mixture that reminds her of a toad. Dark eyes, darker than any human eyes, and long hair.

Rumplestiltskin, the trickster. Rumplestiltskin, the deal-maker.

Belle recovers her wits and drops a curtsey. Her father has raised her to be polite to everyone, and this creature above all others, she thinks, should be shown courtesy. Powerful beings should always be shown courtesy, because the consequences of giving offence are great.

"Sir," she murmurs, and he gives a high-pitched giggle; Belle's cheeks warm in a blush, but she tries not to let him see how his amusement throws her off-balance.

"Sir," he says, mocking her. "I like that. Sir. I should make everybody call me that." He doesn't move, remains leaning against her bed, eyes fixed upon her. "You're not afraid to say my name, are you? You've been calling it for a while now."

"No," says Belle. "I – I'm not afraid." He nods slowly, grin fading into something else, something more thoughtful and full of curiosity. "Thank you for coming…Rumplestiltskin."

He makes a grand gesture, a flourish of his hand. "You called," he says. "What can I do for you, dearie?"

Belle hides her shaking hands behind her back. "The war," she says. "The ogres…they're coming closer. Too close." He nods, waits for her to continue. "I need the village to be safe," she says, rushing her words a little, forgetting all she's been taught about elocution and the value of speaking carefully in her haste to explain herself to this creature. "The people – they don't deserve this. It isn't their war."

His lip curls; he pushes away from the bedpost and comes a few steps closer, his steps strange, as if he's dancing to some music she can't hear.

"How strange," he says. "Most nobles don't take that perspective." Belle nods; she knows that. But her mother taught her that a noble's place is only secured through service to the people he or she protects. Her mother taught her that she owes everything to the people who pledge their fealty to her, and so she must give everything if it is required.

It is required now.

"They don't deserve it," she repeats. "So I want to make a deal with you."

"That _is_ why most people call me," he says, and laughs, that high-pitched sound that sends a shiver running down her spine. "So what is it you want, dearie? Let's be…specific." He's almost too close for comfort now, and Belle is suddenly acutely aware that she's in her nightgown, wearing far too little to feel comfortable. She hadn't been able to think of an excuse not to change at bedtime, so Sarah had unlaced her dress and corset, brushed her hair and tied it back in a plait.

She feels as though she might as well be naked, with the way he's looking at her. Not lustful, not lascivious in the way she sometimes sees from the men in the castle or even in the village. Even Gaston, the model knight her father wishes her to marry, looks at her that way sometimes. As if all she is good for is being decorative and lying in a man's bed. No, Rumplestiltskin does not gaze at her with lust, but she feels naked nonetheless, defenceless against that stare that seems to strip away all her masks, all the barriers she erects between herself and the world, to see into the core of her being.

"I want the village to be safe," she says, and her voice comes out soft, weak. "Everyone. Every man, woman and child." She lifts her chin, tries to stare him down. "Can you do that?"

"Of course," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "Child's play." Belle thinks of the men in the infirmary, thinks of those who are barely more than _children_ lying there with bloody bandages, with amputated limbs. She thinks of the wreckage of towns and villages she's seen. She thinks of fields trampled into nothingness by the relentless army of ogres. Child's play. "The question is, what will you give me in return?"

Belle can't quite disguise her desperation. "Anything," she says. "I will give you anything."

Suddenly he's right before her, hands on her arms gripping her tight, his breath hot on her face. "Anything," he breathes, "is not a wise thing to give up, dearie." Belle's shaking, closes her eyes, can't bear to look at him when she's sure he's going to refuse the deal.

She's sure she's got nothing to offer.

"Why are you making this deal?" he asks then, a curious note to his voice. "Your father is lord here. Does he not see your situation is hopeless?"

"He does," she whispers. "But…but…"

"But, but, but?" He releases her, steps back and she exhales slowly, opens her eyes again. "Don't bother," he says. "I know his type." Belle wants to defend her father – he's a good man, a caring man, he would do this if he had to. He would make the deal, if he knew the deal was there to be made. But she can't seem to find the words, and her mouth is dry.

"What do you want?" she manages at last. "My father would offer gold, but the tales say you spin gold from straw."

He giggles again. "Don't believe everything you hear," he says. "But that tale is true. I have no need of gold. No, I'm interested in something…else."

"What?" she asks, and she stretches out a hand in entreaty. "What is your price? Please, tell me. I mean it. I will give anything that is mine to give, if it will save my people."

He's silent for long moments, and Belle begins to think he will refuse, thinks she was foolish to ever try to strike a deal with the deal-maker. She knows she has little enough to bargain with. She possesses no magical artefacts, which seem to feature heavily in tales of Rumplestiltskin's deals. She has no wealth or power. She is the daughter of a country knight, the daughter of a dead mother. She has no skills to trade, although she has learnt more of strategy than the men around her think is wise. She can sew and embroider, she can dance the usual dances. She has nothing to offer.

Then at last he smiles, baring teeth. "Alright, dearie," he says softly. "My price is you."

Belle frowns, lets her hand fall. "I don't understand," she says.

"My price," he says, the pitch of his voice rising, taunting and mischievous, "is you."

Belle licks her lips. "You asked me to be specific," she whispers, "and now I must ask the same of you. What is it you want of me?" She wonders, fleetingly, if she had been wrong about him. She wonders if he had been looking at her just the same way other men did, but better disguised. But Rumplestiltskin is not a man; everyone is agreed on that. He might look more or less like a man, and talk like one, but he is not a man, and nobody can say whether he has the same…appetites and desires as a man.

"Just what I say, dearie," he says. He's mocking her, somehow, and she hates it. "You are my price. I will save your village and everyone in it, if you come with me. As my bride."

She almost chokes, closes her eyes for a moment but then forces them open again. "Why?" she manages to ask. "Why that?"

"Because it is what you least want to give, my lady," he says. He's serious now, and the title sounds odd from his mouth, but Belle thinks he is trying to give her the courtesy of treating her as a rational adult. She has learned, over the past weeks and months of her engagement, that Gaston is incapable of such a thing. It makes her warm to him, this dark creature before her, and she knows that may be just what he wants.

"Do you always drive such hard bargains?" she whispers, and he laughs, twirls a hand through the air, malice glittering in his eyes and teeth.

"Perhaps you should ask those I deal with," he suggests. "I give people what they want. It's not my fault if they don't like the price. My price is you, as my wife. With me, forever."

Belle turns away from him for a moment, lifts her hands to cover her face. She breathes deeply, thinks about this deal. She thinks about going away with Rumplestiltskin, about being his wife. She must be somebody's wife; that is something outside her control. And he's right, it is what she least wants to give. She has no desire to be some man's pretty bauble, to lie in a man's bed and let her life be given over to child-bearing.

She dreamed of adventures, when she was a child. It has been a long time since she allowed herself to dream of such things.

Belle takes a deep breath, lets her hands fall to her sides and turns back to him. He's waiting, standing more still than she has seen him be yet, his eyes fixed upon her. Belle knows he must have reasons for this, beyond the heartache it will cause her, beyond the scale of what it will cost her. He will have reasons, but they are not hers to know.

"They will all be safe?" she asks again. "My family…my friends…they will all live?"

"You have my word," he says, bowing slightly, almost a mockery of manners. Belle nods slowly, considers just for a moment more. But she knows there is really nothing to consider; she will give even this to keep her people safe.

She hopes her mother would be proud of her in this moment.

"Then you have mine," she says. "I will go with you, forever."

"Deal," he says, with another of his high-pitched giggles, and Belle shivers at the sound of it, at the pleasure he displays at securing his deal. This is a creature who takes pleasure in the misfortune of others; she stores that knowledge in her mind, for she knows she will need to learn his ways. She will need to learn how to please him, how to keep him from being angry. She will need to be his wife in deed as well as in name, because Rumplestiltskin always keeps his deals, and if he feels she is breaking her side, the consequences do not bear thinking about.

"You may have three days," he says then. "Inform your father, pack whatever you feel you need to bring. I'll come for you at sunset on the third day."

"Thank you," she says, and means it. It is more than she thought he would give her. She hopes he doesn't want anything in return for his boon, but doesn't dare ask, lowers her gaze to the floor in the hopes that she can keep from revealing her thoughts in her expression.

He steps close to her, puts one finger under her chin to make her lift her head. She meets his eyes, wary, but Rumplestiltskin seems to be looking for something in her expression. He scrutinises her, gaze darting across her face, and then he gives another giggle and Belle can't quite conceal her shiver.

"In three days, then, my lady," he says. "And you won't think of breaking our deal, hm?"

"No," she says. "No, I won't."

"Good girl." He withdraws, sketches a bow that's more serious than before, less mocking. As if he thinks she's worthy of it now, where she wasn't before. "Three days."

And then suddenly, like a candle flame when blown out, he's gone. Belle manages to remain upright for a moment, and then her knees give way and she collapses to the floor.

* * *

Fic is completed, 40 chapters + epilogue, and a new chapter will be posted every evening, GMT.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It is not easy, trying to tell her father what she has done. She's managed to get him alone, at least, which means she can break the news to him without having to deal with the reactions of his advisors, his friends.

She kneels at his side and holds his hands in hers. She can't look at him, speaks to his knees as she explains what she's done, the deal she's made. The price that was asked.

There is silence for long moments when she's finished, and he holds her hands tightly, so tightly it almost hurts. When he speaks, he sounds more broken than she has ever heard him. Heart-broken, and it makes her want to cry.

"Belle," he says. "Oh my sweet Belle."

"It's done," she says, dull and tired – so tired, because she barely slept after Rumplestiltskin left her, had spent the long hours until dawn in bed but too restless to sleep. She must try to sleep, tonight and the next night, even if she has to go to the apothecary and ask for a sleeping draught. She will need to be strong, to face her new life.

"You shouldn't have done it," her father whispers, agonised. "You shouldn't have to pay any price for this war."

"Everyone else is paying for it," she says, curt suddenly. "Do you think I am protected by the castle walls? If the ogres come, they'll kill me as if I were anybody else." He flinches, tugs his hands from hers, and Belle sighs. "I'm sorry, Papa," she says, and means it. "But…it had to be done. And the village will be safe, now."

"Only if you keep your deal," he says. "You don't have to, Belle – we can find a way out for you. You're already engaged, after all."

"No."

Maurice lifts a hand, covers his eyes. He's silent, and Belle looks up at him, waits for him to process her answer. She has no intention of trying to break the deal she's made. She will not try to trick or deceive Rumplestiltskin. She will not run from him. At sunset in three days, she will be ready to go with him as his bride.

He sighs, drops his hand into his lap. "It's done," he says. "I wish…but if it's done, it's done." He reaches out to her, strokes her hair back from her face. "My poor girl. You should have had so much better."

Belle thinks of Gaston, and wonders whether her father thinks Gaston is better than Rumplestiltskin. Perhaps he is; she doesn't know the deal-maker well enough to know that, yet. But somehow she thinks Rumplestiltskin has a measure of respect for her that Gaston seems to lack, and respect is something many wives do not have.

It will be something to treasure, if it's true. If it is true, for Belle knows she may be hoping and wishing for something good to come out of this deal she's made.

Then she reprimands herself; it will be enough to know that her people are safe. That is all she can ask for, and it _will_ be enough, even if she has to remind herself of it every day for the rest of her life.

"I don't…I don't know what women need, for marriage," says Maurice then, hesitant and a little afraid. "If your mother were here…" He trails off, and they share their grief for a moment. It has been long years since she died, but Belle's mother is a constant absence, a constant ache in their hearts.

"I will ask Laura Cooper," she says at last. "She is a good friend. She will help me."

Maurice nods, wearied and grief-stricken. "Go, then," he says. "Make whatever preparations are necessary. I…I will tell the council, and Sir Gaston." Belle nods, rises and shakes her skirts out, and he stands up too, surprises her with a hand on her shoulder. "Belle," he says, "if I could change this fate for you, I would. But…I am proud of you. And I think your mother would be too."

There's a lump in her throat and tears stinging at her eyes, but Belle refuses to cry, refuses to be so weak when she knows she can be braver than that.

"Thank you, Papa," she manages. "I hope she…" But she can't finish her sentence, and Maurice lifts his hand, turns away from her as if he can't bear to look at her any longer. Belle doesn't blame him; he has lost his wife, and now he will lose his daughter. But she has saved the village, and she knows eventually that will be a comfort for him.

She goes through the castle and keeps her head down, avoids meeting anybody's eyes, even though nobody knows the deal she has struck, not yet. Soon enough the word will spread, and people will be afraid for her, she knows. People will cry and shout and protest, because although Belle is not vain, she knows she is well-liked by the people who live and work in the castle, and further afield in the village.

Laura Cooper is the wife of a tradesman in the village, daughter to the woman who cared for Belle when her mother died, and Belle's oldest and closest friend after her father. Some years older than Belle, she has three children and a fourth on the way. Her daughter is barely four, the twins just two and barely toddling, but when Belle arrives at their cottage, Laura looks at her and sends the children outside.

"Tell me," she commands, and sets Belle to kneading dough for bread while she talks. Belle is weary of the story already, but she tells it, explains how she called for Rumplestiltskin and the deal he struck with her. She asks for help, and Laura, who knows Belle well and knows all that Belle has hated and feared for her future, agrees at once.

"You have your trousseau," she says, soft now, gentle. Belle nods; she has been sewing linens for years, finishing the work her mother had started before she died. Sheets and tablecloths and fine undergarments. Rumplestiltskin has not asked for a dowry, but Belle will take with her the things she has prepared for her marriage. "But no wedding dress."

Belle shrugs her shoulders, shapes the dough into a round loaf. "I do not think he is interested in a wedding," she says. "I am the price he exacted." Laura purses her lips, brings her a paddle to put the dough onto and then takes it to the bread oven.

"Perhaps not a wedding," she says. "But there are things all men are interested in." Belle tries not to blush, because this is why she has come to Laura, after all. "He'll like to see you looking nice."

"He's not a man," Belle tries to claim. "He's…you know what he is." But he walks like a man, and talks like one, and Belle knows what will be expected of her as a wife. If he does not take her to bed, she wonders, would that invalidate their deal? Quite possibly.

"I know." Laura is silent then, stands still with her back to Belle. Her hands are on her hips, her head lowered. Belle brushes flour from her hands and wonders whether Laura is right, whether Rumplestiltskin would have her dressed appropriately when he comes to collect her.

"I have my mother's wedding dress," she says at last. "It would need altering – she was taller than I am."

"Altering is easier than trying to make a dress from scratch," Laura agrees, and she turns now, her eyes sad even as her mouth smiles. "And it's fitting, I think. Your mother…she was a good woman." Belle nods. Her mother was the best of women, and Belle hopes she can one day be something like her.

"How will he marry you?" Laura asks then, her voice soft again, and she comes to sit at the table, reaches out and takes Belle's hand. "I don't think the clerics would…"

"No." Belle looks down at their joined hands. Laura's hands are work-roughened, and her own are smoother, paler than her friend's. "The old way, I suppose," she manages. She will make a vow to be his, in front of witnesses, and he will give her a ring. It's simple enough, and it will make her his wife.

"And after?"

"I don't know." Belle closes her eyes. "I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know where he lives. I doubt I shall ever come back here. I –" I'm scared, she wants to say, but she can't allow herself to admit it, not even to Laura. She has chosen this fate, and she will save the village. She must be brave, she must lock away all fear deep inside her heart and never let it out.

She thinks he would think less of her, if he knew how afraid she is. But then, he must expect it; he must know that she will be afraid. And why, she wonders, should it matter what he thinks of her? But it does matter, it will matter. She will be his wife for the rest of her life, and it matters what he thinks of her, because she must make the best of the situation. She must learn to be his companion, and to please him.

That is her duty, now.

"You say he is not truly a man," Laura says slowly. "But if he is a man, or enough of a man, there are things…" Things Belle must know; that is why she has come here. If her mother were alive, Belle would go to her and would somehow have to find the words to ask about the things she must know as a wife. But her mother is dead, and Laura is a good friend. She will tell Belle what she needs to know.

"Yes," she says, and pulls her hand from Laura's, clasps her hands tightly together in her lap. "Will you tell me?"

Laura sighs, looks weary for a moment. "Some men are kind," she says, blunt and unsparing. "Some men take care that it will not hurt much. The first time always hurts, though." Belle is blushing, her cheeks burning, and she drops her gaze to the table top. "There's pleasure too, if…if the man is kind."

Belle swallows, reminds herself that she cannot be afraid. "And…if he's not kind?" she asks, a barely-audible whisper, because her husband will be Rumplestiltskin and he is…not known for being kind. He has shown her generosity, it's true – he did not have to give her these three days to say her farewells and pack up her belongings. But he's not known for his kindness.

Laura hesitates. "My mother told me," she says at last, "that there are three kinds of men. Those who are kind, and considerate of their wives. My Thomas, thank the gods, is one of those. There are men who are inconsiderate, but not malicious. They need to be taught to be kind and gentle, but they _can_ be taught, if their wives are patient and understand that they do not…mean to be unkind."

"And the third kind of man?"

"The third kind of man will never learn, and cannot be taught. They…men like that can be cruel." Laura shakes her head. "You know those men, Belle. They consider their wives property and nothing more. With them there is always pain, and no pleasure. That is what my mother told me."

Belle thinks of Gaston, and she shudders. Gaston would be one of those, she thinks, because he looks at her as if she is a pretty, decorative thing who will belong to him once they are wed. Rumplestiltskin had not looked at her like that, but Belle knows she cannot hope to know what kind of man he is from one brief meeting.

"Belle," Laura whispers, "are you sure about this? Is there no way to break the deal?"

"I gave my word," says Belle, and she looks up at Laura, hopes her resolve shows on her face. "I gave my word, Laura. I won't break the deal. No matter what kind of a man he is."

Laura looks helpless, shakes her head and lifts a hand to cover her mouth for a moment. "Oh, Belle," she says. "You are far, far too good."

"The people will be safe," Belle says. "That's all that matters." She thinks about the people she's seen in the infirmary, thinks about the people who have died in her arms as she tries to comfort them. She cannot stop the war, cannot keep the world safe, but she can keep this village safe, and it is her duty to do whatever it takes to achieve that.

"What else?" she asks. "What else must I know?"

Laura sighs, shakes her head again. "Without knowing him, I'm not sure what to say," she says. "My mother told me that some men always want to bed their wives, and others do not. But I cannot tell you which he will be. I can tell you that childbirth hurts, and what herbs to use to ease it." Belle nods; if Rumplestiltskin is man enough to take her to his bed, he will surely be man enough to create a child.

"Tell me…tell me not to be afraid," she whispers. "Tell me how not to be afraid, Laura?" Her chin trembles with the force of the tears that are trying to fall, and Laura stands up, comes around the table and folds Belle into her arms.

"Oh, my dear," she murmurs. "My dear." She holds Belle tightly and Belle clings to her, clings to her as she would cling to her mother if she was here. Belle has made the only decision she is able to make, and she has saved her village, but she is afraid.

She is so afraid.

"You're so brave, Belle," Laura says, a fierce whisper. "We will never forget what you've done for us, and the price you've paid. Never. I promise you."

Belle nods, and the thought gives her more comfort than she thought it would. Then Laura releases her, and Belle pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve, wipes her eyes.

"I must get back," she says. "Papa will have told everyone, and…and I must find the dress. And begin to pack, I suppose."

"Three days, you said," Laura says. "I – I'll find someone to look after the children, tomorrow. I'll come and help you." She takes Belle's hand, clutches it tightly. "We'll talk more then," she promises. "Oh, Belle."

"It will be alright," Belle says. "It has to be."

Laura nods. "Yes," she says, serious and solemn. "Yes. If…if this is to be your life, you must make it be alright, Belle. Don't fade away. I've seen women fade away with a husband they didn't choose." Her grip on Belle's hand is painfully tight. "Don't let it happen to you," she says.

Belle nods, thinks of what her future might have been with Gaston. Every day would have been the same, every night would have been an ordeal. She would have spent the years bearing children until she could bear no more, or died bringing them into the world. There would have been no love, for Gaston has never spoken of love and she knows herself well enough to know she could never love him.

There will be no love with Rumplestiltskin, but whilst the uncertainty is frightening, she thinks it may be easier to bear, to be married to someone who already knows her well enough to know what she least wants to give.

Laura is right; she must make her life as bearable as possible, because she is her mother's daughter. She has sacrificed her future for her people, as her mother had taught her to do if it was necessary, and she must make it alright, somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Gaston doesn't come to her until the next day, and Belle isn't sure whether she's grateful for his reticence, or offended by how long it takes him to seek her out. But it gives her some time to work out how to act and what to say, so that when he finally does come to see her she is calm and reserved.

"Is it true?" he demands of her. "Your father said – is it true? Have you made a deal with that – that beast?"

"Yes," says Belle. She is sitting in the solar with Sarah, both sewing as fast as they can. Sarah works on the wedding dress they are altering to fit Belle. Belle is hurrying to finish the plain sewing she had been preparing for her marriage to Gaston, the sewing she thought she would have weeks yet to complete. She hates sewing sheets, but she won't go to Rumplestiltskin unprepared.

"How could you?" Gaston demands, lip curled in a sneer, hands clenching into fists at his side. Belle fastens her needle into the length of linen she's sewing, puts it aside and looks up at him. She feels, just for a moment, a sense of loathing for this man and a deep relief that she will not have to marry him.

"I did what I had to do," she says calmly. "To save my people."

"We could have fought them off," Gaston claims. "And you are engaged to _me_."

Belle folds her hands in her lap, glances briefly at Sarah who, as a good maid ought, keeps her eyes down on her work and her mouth tightly closed.

"I was engaged to you," Belle says finally. "But tomorrow night he will come for me, and I will go with him as his bride. That's the price he asked, and the deal is done."

"You can't –" He cuts himself off, shakes his head. Gaston is not a man used to people saying no to him, and that is what Belle has done. He seems unable to comprehend it, and Belle waits, patient, as he visibly struggles to gather his thoughts together. "I did not want to believe it," he says at last. "I thought you would at least honour your father by obeying his wish for our engagement. Instead you go behind his back to make deals with a monster!"

"I honour him by saving the people he protects," snaps Belle, angry now. She rises, to give herself less disadvantage in the situation, and Gaston falls back a step. "How could I live with myself if I married you and went away to safety, and everybody here was killed – people I have known my whole life? I can _prevent_ that."

His mouth moves soundlessly, and Belle lifts her chin, stares at him. She has some hope that by appealing to his sense of duty, his sense of honour, he might see the sense in what she has done. She isn't sure that his pride will allow it. By breaking their engagement, and agreeing to marry another man, she may have offended his pride more than he can bear.

"It's done," she says, when it seems he cannot or will not speak. "If you have nothing else to say then please, I have a lot of work to do."

"You cannot expect me to allow you to walk away with _him_," Gaston mutters. "Do you not know the stories? He is evil. A monster."

"You have no say in the matter," Belle tells him. "I no longer have any tie to you. My father has agreed to it; that's all that matters to me." That stings his ego, and she knows she should not have said it, but it is the truth. Her father is proud of her, but even he cannot stop her from going. If he forbade her from going with Rumplestiltskin, she would be sorry not to have his pride in her, but it would not stop her. She has made the deal, and she will honour it.

"I thought you better than that," Gaston tells her, and he leaves. Belle sighs, sits back down, glances at Sarah. Her maid keeps her eyes on her work; Sarah is a good maid, a good friend, even, but she will not speak unless Belle invites her to do so.

She is better than that, she tells herself, better than Gaston thinks her to be. She is a better woman for making this deal. She has spent the past months, years even, cowering in the village listening to stories of the ogre wars and praying the fighting would never come too close. When it did come, she could do nothing but help patch up the wounded, or work in the still room to create remedies that have been used up more quickly than she can replace them.

She could do nothing, and the knowledge of that has eaten at her heart. Now she has done something, and it will take more than Gaston to shake the belief in her heart that she has done what is right.

"How is the dress?" she asks, forcing her voice to be light, pleasant. "Will it be ready in time?"

"Yes, my lady," says Sarah. "I'll have it finished by tonight."

"Good," says Belle. "Then tomorrow –" Her voice breaks, and she has to take a moment to breathe, to steady her nerves. "Tomorrow we will pack everything away. I won't manage any more after this sheet."

Sarah nods. "You have enough, my lady," she says quietly. "And he will no doubt have linen of his own."

Belle tries to smile; tears sting her eyes, blur her vision as she takes up her needle once more. "Perhaps," she says. "But men's linen is not always as good as it ought to be." She pauses, a sigh shaking her body. "I should take a medicine box from the still room," she says, almost to herself. Rumplestiltskin has magic, and she knows magic can work many wonders that her own simple remedies could not dream of, but there are things she could use her infusions and ointments for that she could not bother him for. Headaches, or the cramps she sometimes gets with her monthly cycle, trifles that she would not take to any man.

She is proud of her small accomplishments in the still room, learned from her mother and then from Laura's mother. She could not go to Rumplestiltskin complaining of cramps, or a headache, or chilblains in the winter. He is too powerful, too remote. Even when she knows him better, she could not go to him about such small complaints that she is perfectly capable of remedying without the use of magic.

"That seems wise," says Sarah, and she sounds as though she's determined to be cheerful. "Not that there's much left in there, but you should take some things with you." She leaves unspoken that Belle has no idea what could be waiting for her; Rumplestiltskin might live in a castle or a cottage, and either might be wholly unprepared for a person who had no magic.

"Yes," Belle says. "Yes, I…" She lets her hands go idle, the needle poised between one stitch and the next. "Sarah, I wish I could take you with me," she says quietly. "It would bring me comfort, to have a familiar face. But I dare not ask it."

"I know, my lady," says Sarah gently. "But thank you for the thought."

"My father will make sure your situation is secure, anyway," Belle says, forcing herself to continue with her work. "You won't be turned out from the castle." It's meagre comfort, perhaps, but Sarah is a good worker, and Belle has already spoken to her father about letting Sarah run the household for him. He may yet remarry, but with Belle gone, the household will need managing. Sarah has helped Belle to do it, and will be able to take her place more easily than anyone else.

"Thank you, my lady," Sarah murmurs. Then her tone changes, determinedly cheerful once more. "I've nearly finished this tuck," she says. "But I will need to check it for size."

"Then when I've finished this sheet, we'll go back to my rooms," Belle tells her. "I can try it on there, and the case Papa said I could take should have been brought there by now. We can start packing."

When they go up through the castle to Belle's rooms – the outer room where Sarah sleeps, and the inner where Belle lives – Laura is waiting for them. She has a basket covered with a cloth, and she manages a smile when she sees the wedding dress Sarah is carrying.

"That will suit you very well," she says. "You will look quite beautiful in it."

"I have to try it on again," Belle says, and Sarah unlaces her dress, helps her change into the wedding dress, metres of velvet and lace far finer than Belle's everyday wear. It's not quite Belle's tastes; she is not her mother. But it will do well enough, and it will comfort her, Belle thinks, to have something of her mother with her at her wedding, as she greets her new life.

"You look lovely," Laura says in a hushed voice. "Don't you think, Sarah?"

"Quite lovely," Sarah agrees. "I'll just pin this hem, my lady, and then I'll go and finish it, shall I?"

"Thank you," says Belle. She glances at the basket as Sarah kneels and begins to pin the hem into position. "What have you brought?" she asks, curious, and Laura shrugs her shoulders, puts the basket on Belle's bed.

"Some dried herbs and infusions," she says. "Ones I think you won't have. A wedding gift, from Thomas and me. And one from just me." She smiles, or tries to, and Belle tries to return the expression. "You didn't think I'd let you leave empty-handed?"

"You didn't have to," says Belle quietly.

"Of course I didn't," says Laura. "But you'll take them anyway." Belle nods, can't meet her friend's eyes. She hadn't expected anything, but she's touched by it. Thomas Cooper is one of the better-off tradesmen in the village, but she knows how little can be spared by any of them as the ogre wars creep closer and closer.

Sarah rises and unlaces her gown; Belle steps out of it and Sarah leaves the room, the dress over her arm. Laura steps forward to help Belle dress again, and she strokes a hand over Belle's hair when she's finished.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," Belle has to admit. Activity keeps her mind engaged, but then there are moments of quietness, of inactivity, when her thoughts begin to race and something like panic begins to flutter in her belly before she can squash it. Panic and fear, for she cannot seem to stop being afraid of her future, of the strange creature she has bound herself to for the rest of her life.

Familiarity will ease the fear, she tells herself. Fear of the unknown is overwhelming; whilst she may still be afraid of him, when she knows him, she can try to ease it with that knowledge. She can learn how to avoid his anger, can learn not to be afraid of some of the things that make her afraid now, at least.

The large oak case has arrived in the room, the one her father promised that she could use to take her belongings with her, and Belle goes to it now, opens up the lid. There is plenty of room for her things, and she tries to think of how best to pack, to distract herself from thinking about why she is packing.

"Here," says Laura. "Let me help." She goes to the bed, where Belle's linens have been spread to air, and she lifts a sheet, gestures for Belle to come and help her fold it. "Busy hands keep a mind occupied," she says. "Linens first, then we can put anything breakable, and your clothes on top."

"I don't think there's anything that could – no, of course, I will take a box from the still room, with bottles," says Belle, distracted and struggling to put her thoughts together. "I hope – I hope I'm not taking too much," she says. "He said I should pack whatever I needed, but…" She does not want to begin their marriage by angering or irritating him, but he _had_ said she could pack, and she does not mean to go unprepared. Her clothing, the household linens, and her simple remedies – they will be familiar things around her, things to remind her of home and the people who love her. The people she has given herself to save.

"He cannot object," says Laura, but there's doubt in her voice. "Surely, he won't object? You need clothing, at least."

"I don't know." Belle takes the folded sheet, goes to put it in the case, uses it as an excuse to hide her face from her friend. "How could I know? I don't know _him_. I know the stories, of course, but that isn't the same thing."

"No." Laura is silent for a moment, then she sighs. "He cannot expect you to take nothing," she says, fierce and determined. Protective, and Belle appreciates her friend's protective instinct. "You're taking little enough – I've heard stories of your father's mother bringing four great cases as well as a travelling bag."

Belle manages a smile; she's heard the same stories. Her paternal grandmother had not been known for her frugality, and Belle has no doubt that the case her father has given her is one of those brought when her grandmother came to marry the lord of the castle.

"You're right," she says. "Except perhaps the linens, I'm taking nothing I won't need. He might have those, you know. He must live _somewhere_, and even he must sleep." Even a creature like Rumplestiltskin must require a bed, although she thinks of his mottled skin, his odd movements, and wonders if it is a bed he uses, or a nest as animals do.

But she will need a bed, and she cannot rely on him to provide anything. He has not _chosen_ to marry her, exactly – he chose it because she did not want to marry, rather than from any desire on his own part to have a wife. She cannot ask him for anything unless it is offered, she decides now. She will not become a burden, she will not make him regret it and cast her out. If he does so, she's sure the deal will be invalidated.

And she will make sure her people are safe, no matter what hardships she must endure.

"Don't fret over things you can't control," Laura advises her softly. "Deal with tomorrow evening when it comes. For now, come and help me fold this tablecloth. What lovely stitching, Belle."

Belle nods, goes to help her friend. "This is one of the last things Mother sewed," she says. Her own sewing is quite ordinary beside the wonderful things her mother could do, but then for so long Belle has spent more time in the still room and the infirmary than at her embroidery. War has changed what is expected of her; she may get more practice, when she is Rumplestiltskin's wife.

Laura is right, she thinks. She must not think of the things she cannot control; she must keep her mind occupied with the practical things that need to be done before sunset tomorrow.

She must not think about sunset.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle is in the infirmary when the sun drifts below the horizon and the candles and tapers are lit. She has been here for several hours, and she is sweaty and covered in blood.

She sits on a bed, cradling a boy in her arms. He's just beginning to grow into manhood, and she thinks, wearily, of how few years lie between them. This boy who will never grow older than sixteen, who will never marry or have children, or finish his apprenticeship with the tailor that was curtailed by the need for soldiers.

He is dying; he has been dying for some time. Last week his foot was amputated and rot has set in. The stink of it lingers, but Belle is used to the smells and sounds of the infirmary, the cries of wounded men that are not always soothed by the pain-relieving poppy syrup. She is used to it, and it steels her heart for what lays before her.

"It's so dark," the boy mutters. Richard, she remembers. His name is Richard Goodman. "It's so dark, my lady."

"Hush, now," she says to him, stroking his hair away from his face. He's sweating too, feverish, his gaze unfocused. It's not dark in the infirmary; good light is essential here. It is a sign that he is not long for the world. The healers have been to see him, and he has drunk a mixture that will ease his pain and hasten his inevitable end. "Hush, Richard. We'll light more candles for you."

"You – you're so good," he says, barely audible in the busy infirmary. Belle feels hot tears in her eyes, and wonders that she can still cry. She is tired, so very tired – she's been here for hours without respite, without food. Her father had begged her to leave, but she remembers the day Richard was apprenticed to the tailor. She remembers how proud his parents were, how dedicated he had been. She cannot leave him before the end.

"You're so kind, my lady," Richard manages, and he coughs, wet and bloody. "Thank you – thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, Richard," Belle says, and she pushes away the helplessness she feels, the anger. This boy should not be dying, she thinks – and no more will die, not from the war. This is why she has made the deal; this is why she must see it through. "Close your eyes, now," she murmurs. "Rest now, Richard. It's alright. It's going to be alright."

Richard gives a choked laugh, and it makes her shiver even though she's hot and sweating, even though the fire is built up. He knows he is dying; he knows it will not be alright.

"Thank you," he says again. "Tell – tell my mother – " He has to break off, coughing again, and Belle holds a cloth to his mouth to mop up the blood. She would offer him a sip of water, but she would have to move away to fetch it, and she will not leave him. "Tell her I love her," Richard manages at last. "Will you tell her, my lady?"

"Of course I will," says Belle at once. "I'll tell her. But she knows, Richard." Richard says nothing, and Belle closes her eyes, swallows hard to keep from crying. She has sat with many dying men and women, even dying children such as this one, but it never becomes any easier. She wants to cry, but refuses to allow herself that self-indulgence. "Richard?" she asks, with a vain hope that perhaps he is still here, perhaps he is…

But he is still in her arms; his chest no longer moves, his eyes are dull and unfocused. Belle eases him away, lays him down on the bed. Her limbs are cramping from being still for so long, and she cries out when she tries to rise.

A hand lands on her shoulder, another goes to support her elbow and help her straighten. Belle glances up, tries to muffle her cry of surprise. Rumplestiltskin, looking just as he had three nights before, is standing beside her in the infirmary. His expression is peculiar – something like sympathy in his eyes and the lines of his face, something like respect.

"He will be the last," he says, when she says nothing. "I give you my word, my lady." Belle nods her head slowly; Richard will be the last. She has made the deal, and no more innocents will die here because of the ogre war.

She lifts a hand to wipe away her tears; feels dirt and sweat and blood encrusted on her face and wonders what she must look like to him.

"I'm sorry," she says, and her voice is cracked with fatigue, small and harsh through a dry throat. "I meant to be ready – I am ready to go with you, but I…"

"Calm yourself, dearie," he says, and his lip curls into what might be a smile. Belle wonders if he's amused, wonders if she will ever learn his moods well enough to know what each gesture means, each quirk of his mouth. "I hardly think half an hour here or there matters. Clean yourself up, by all means."

"I – alright," says Belle, uncertain. She hates it, hates her own hesitancy, but Rumplestiltskin is so strange, so…generous. He has been so generous with her, and she cannot help but think there must be some motive behind it. "I won't be long," she says, and he nods, eyes narrowed a little, the corner of his mouth lifting a little.

"I trust not," he says. He glances down at the boy on the bed – the dead child – and Belle thinks something of sorrow passes across his face for a moment. She wonders at it; Rumplestiltskin has the power to stop the ogre wars altogether and does not, yet he seems to grieve for this child who has died suffering. Then he removes his hands from her, bares teeth in a grin. "Hurry along, then," he says. "We don't have all day, you know."

Belle drops a curtsey, wipes her hands on her apron and winds her way through the beds. The others seem not to notice Rumplestiltskin as he follows her, but in the hallway outside the man on duty smothers a curse, and the whispers grow as he continues to follow her up through the castle to her chambers.

"Will – would you wait here?" she asks then, turning to him. "My rooms are here – or I can ask somebody to take you to the great hall? My father will be –"

"I've no interest in him," Rumplestiltskin dismisses. "I presume he's to witness?" Belle nods, silent. She could not do other than ask her father to witness her marriage. Sarah and Laura will be there too, and her father's advisors, although she wishes it could just be her closest friends. "I'll wait here," he says. "Be quick, my lady. Time presses onwards."

Belle leaves him in the corridor and goes into her chambers; Sarah is waiting with a basin of hot water on the washstand, clean underclothes and the altered wedding dress. Laura is packing the last few things away into the case for her.

"He's here," Belle says briefly, going to the wash stand in the corner. She splashes water over her face and then uses a cloth to wash herself properly. Sarah hurries to untie her apron and unlace her work dress; the dress will go into the case unwashed, and she will have to soak it thoroughly when she is settled in her new home. The apron, blood-stained and worn thin, will be left for the infirmary's use.

"Shall I make sure your father is ready?" Laura asks, and Belle nods. Her father must be warned, if nobody has warned him already. Rumplestiltskin has given her enough time to clean herself, but not enough time for prolonged farewells.

"Thank you," she says. "But don't – don't –" She sighs, irritated with herself. "He's waiting outside," she says, keeping her voice low. The walls are thick, the door hardly less so, but she has no idea how well he can hear. "Please don't speak to him? Don't risk –"

"I promise," says Laura, understanding the things Belle can't bring herself to say. "I'll go straight to your father, and not say a word to a soul until I get there." She gives Belle a long look, and then she leaves the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Come, my lady," Sarah urges her. "You must change."

They work to strip Belle to her skin, and the soiled clothes are wrapped in a sheet and put into the case. Belle sponges herself off as Sarah closes the case and locks the hefty lock; the key will go into the pocket sewn into her travelling cloak. Then they work to clothe her again; a fresh shift and drawers and her best corset, laced tighter than is strictly comfortable. Two petticoats and her best stockings, and then the wedding dress – her mother's wedding dress.

Sarah brushes her hair out and pulls it away from her face; they don't bother trying to tie it up, because that would take more time than she has to spare right now. She will have to do, and Belle takes a deep breath, glances down at herself. She looks nice, she thinks. Nice enough, at least. She reaches for her cloak and fastens the clasp securely; the castle is not warm, and the dress is thin.

"Sarah," she says then, "would you ask the steward to take the case downstairs? I shall…I shall ask him what…" She closes her eyes, can't finish her sentence, terror ripping through her with the force of a storm. She breathes through it, forces it away. She has sat with dying men and women in her arms and soothed them into eternal rest, she can face this. "I will ask him what he wishes done with it," she says. "I'm not sure how he travels."

"Yes, my lady," says Sarah. She hesitates, as if she wants to say something, and Belle can see she's struggling against tears. Sarah has been her maid for many years, and Belle tries to smile at her, to be a comfort in their hour of parting.

She can be strong for those around her, and it will make her strong for herself.

"Thank you, Sarah," she says gently. "Go, now. I will come to the hall in a moment." Sarah nods again, curtseys and exits, leaving the door open. Belle takes a deep breath, glances around her rooms for one final time, and then she follows suit, steps into the corridor and faces her future husband.

Rumplestiltskin is leaning against a wall, waiting for her, and for a brief moment his eyes widen at the sight of her. But in a moment the surprise is gone, covered with a mocking expression.

"Time ticks, dearie," he reminds her. "I thought I should have to fetch you and remind you of our deal."

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, holds her head high and refuses to be scared. "I am ready now. My case is here; I have asked that it be brought down." He nods, but makes no move; he leans against the wall and watches her, lazily, like some great beast who knows that soon his prey will be within his grasp. She shoves away the idea of it; she is not prey. She is to be his wife, and she will not be consumed by him.

"My father will be waiting, sir," she says, quiet and dignified. "He and my friend, Laura Cooper, will be witnesses. If that suits you, sir?"

"It suits," he says, and pushes off the wall. But he keeps looking at her, eyes slightly narrowed and head tilted to one side. He is not much taller than she is, Belle realises now. She has built him up in her head, but he is not tall, and slender. He wears a fine shirt, but the dragon-skin coat almost hides it from view. His boots are heeled, and she wonders if he needs the added inch of height, to create a more imposing image for his deals. She doesn't think so; she thinks those who are desperate enough to call on him are already terrified of him, and need nothing to emphasis his stature.

Then he offers his arm, and Belle cannot refuse to take it, or risk offending him. She links her arm through his and lets him take her down through the castle to the great hall, where her father and the others are waiting for them. Gaston is not there; her father must have made sure of that, and she's grateful for it.

"Please," Maurice says, as soon as they walk into the hall, "please, I beg you. For my daughter. Is there no other price you would take?"

"Papa," Belle protests softly, and she pulls her arm from Rumplestiltskin's, crosses the room to her father. "Papa, no. I've made the deal."

"She's right," Rumplestiltskin says, his voice harsh and metallic, maliciously amused by Sir Maurice's plea. "Deal's struck. But by all means, beg. Perhaps you'll be the one person who can make me release a deal."

"No," says Belle, turning back to him, shaking her head firmly. "Please, he's just worried for me." Rumplestiltskin's lip curls, and he inclines his head in something like acceptance.

"Maybe he's worth something after all, then," he sneers. "Fear not, proud father. I'll make good use of her." Laura stifles a sob; the councilmen, arrayed here as witnesses, mutter to themselves, their outrage clear. Rumplestiltskin laughs, high-pitched and piercing, and Belle turns back to her father, takes his hand.

"I've made my decision," she says to him, tries to be dignified, tries to share that dignity with him. "Please don't let's part like this. I don't want my last memory of you to be unhappy." It cannot be _happy_, but she cannot let him be wretched about this. Her life may become wretched, but it is her choice, and she has done it for the best of reasons.

"Oh, my darling girl," he says, and he's struggling not to cry. "I – I'll try." Belle nods, and she turns around, walks back to Rumplestiltskin.

"I'm ready," she says.

"Then say the words," he says, a command laced in velvet. He almost seems to be daring her, but Belle refuses to rise to his bait.

"I give myself to you, freely of my own will," she says, and her voice carries across the hall, clear and firm. She does not tremble; she does not hesitate. "From this moment on, and for the rest of my life, I will be your wife."

"From this moment on, I will be your husband." He holds out a ring, and Belle is startled for a moment by its appearance from thin air. It's gold, and delicate, and she takes it and slides it onto her finger. She is his wife now, and he is her husband. The deal is completed.

"And now we must be going!" he declares, and Belle glances around wildly, catches a glimpse of her father and Laura standing together. Laura will help him, she thinks. Laura will help him through his grief. "Your carriage awaits, and I've no interest in delaying." He takes her hand, wraps an arm around her waist possessively. "Enjoy your war," he sneers to her father. "And remember how you bought your safety."

And then, before she can process it, before she can quite realise what's happening, he has led her from the hall, across the entrance passage and through the great doors to the outside. Her case is waiting there, and Rumplestiltskin takes her to it. He releases her hand, keeps his arm around her waist, and reaches out to touch the case.

Belle has a moment to look up at the castle, at the place that has been her home all her life. She glances at Rumplestiltskin, who regards her with such a strange expression, as if he anticipates that she will try to run, try to escape the consequences of the deal she has struck.

And then he takes her away, transports her through some magic, and Belle's home is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle stumbles a little as her feet hit the floor, but Rumplestiltskin's arm around her waist steadies her.

"Careful, now!" he says with a giggle. "Mustn't damage you."

Belle straightens and looks around. They're in a large room, a great hall; a long table runs down the centre, polished to a bright shine. There's a fireplace, and candles set in sconces on the walls. The windows are covered with thick drapes. There's a spinning wheel in one corner, and Belle spares a brief moment to remember the stories, the tales he'd said were true.

The stories say Rumplestiltskin spins straw into gold; this must be the spinning wheel, she thinks.

"This way, dearie," he says, and Belle looks back at him, finds him gesturing towards the door. Her case is nowhere to be seen, and she glances around for a moment, shakes off her confusion. He doesn't wait for her, begins to walk, and Belle hurries after him. He takes her from the room into an entrance hall, and he begins to ascend the large staircase, but turns and waggles a finger at her. Belle stops, bites her lip as she wonders what she could have done wrong already.

"I'm forgetting my manners," he says, and she feels a flash of relief that he doesn't intend to chastise her. "Welcome to your new home, my lady." He bows, elaborate and formal, and Belle is oddly charmed, despite her exhaustion and despite her fear.

"Thank you," she says softly. "This is your castle?"

"Mm-hm. The Dark Castle." He straightens, beckons her to continue, and then he turns and nimbly leaps up the stairs. Belle follows more slowly, sedate; she's tired from a long day, from long hours in the infirmary, and she can't help being just a little afraid of what lies before her.

The candles on the walls light up as they approach, a use of magic that's almost breathtaking, and Belle can't decide where to stare, at the candles or the strange creature who uses magic so easily. She tries to look around as he leads her through the castle, along cold passageways and past closed doors, up another flight of stairs and along yet more corridors. She wonders how big the castle is, wonders why she sees nobody else.

She can't hear anybody either, she realises. The castle is silent save for their footsteps as Rumplestiltskin leads her, leather on stone, and Belle almost shivers from the weight of it, cold silence all around and no hint of any living thing.

He opens a door then, gestures for her to precede him into the room, and Belle steps past him slowly, cautiously, terribly aware of how close he is to her.

"Your rooms," he says, and he gives her a little push, propels her further into the room. There's a good fire in the fireplace, and enough light to see by; it's a sitting room of sorts, she sees. There are several chairs that look quite comfortable, and two large windows with glittering diamond-shaped panes of glass. There's a door in the corner, standing ajar, and she supposes her bedroom is through there.

Belle turns to him, finds him scrutinising her. She wonders what he's thinking, wonders what he sees as he looks at her.

"Thank you, sir," she says. He nods, seems almost uncomfortable with her thanks, as if it's wholly unexpected and almost unwanted. His hands flutter at his sides, his eyes slide away from her. Belle clutches the edges of her cloak and wonders what will happen now. She is his bride now, this is their wedding night, and she wonders if he will stay now, or if he will leave her and return later.

She hopes it will be the latter. Although she'd washed before changing into her wedding gown, she still feels dirty, still feels the grime and sweat of the infirmary. She still feels the blood, although she'd scrubbed it from her hands and arms and face. She still feels the dying boy in her arms, can still see in her mind his dull eyes as he slipped into death.

She hopes she can change at least, remove the wedding dress that hardly merits the name, for all the ceremony she'd had, and wash herself more thoroughly. She longs for a bath, and wonders briefly if there is anyone who can attend her, who can bring buckets of water to fill a tub. A bath would be wonderful, would soothe her aches and wash away the coating of sweat and dirt that she still feels despite her wash. A bath would cleanse her body, if not her mind.

But she has been in the castle barely a few minutes, and she has seen nobody yet.

"I trust it meets your standards," says Rumplestiltskin then, and there's a harsh edge in his voice. He's mocking her, expecting her to find some fault in what she sees, but Belle tries to summon a pleasant smile, tries to answer gracefully.

Her mother had been graceful, she remembers. Her mother had been graceful and serene even in the face of death.

"It's lovely," she says. "Thank you." His lip curls, almost a sneer, and Belle lifts her chin and refuses to be intimidated.

"I'll leave you, then," he says at last. "I'll send supper to you."

"I don't mind coming down – I don't want to cause any trouble for anyone," Belle says, fumbling her words a little, and Rumplestiltskin giggles, darkly amused.

"No trouble," he says. "It's just you and me, dearie, and I doubt you want to spend your first meal here afraid of the beast across the table."

Belle is startled, looks at him and sees the curl of his lip, the sharpness of his grin. "But – but surely," she says, "there must be somebody else?" He shakes his head, and Belle can't help staring. She's bewildered by what he's said, but she's sure he's telling the truth – sure because he's not known as a liar, and sure because this castle feels _empty_, in a way her father's castle never did. "How do you run the castle, then?" she asks, and his grin widens just a little, baring teeth.

"You're not stupid, dearie," he says. "How do you think?" Magic, Belle thinks, of course it's magic, but she doesn't understand, can't picture it. Any dwelling, from castle to cottage, needs running and managing. It needs to be cleaned and kept tidy, food must be prepared and stored, gardens must be tended.

And even if magic can do all those things, even if magic can fill storerooms and sweep floors, there are other reasons for giving work to people rather than magic. Employing people from the fiefdom is a way of showing care, she has always been taught, a way of showing that the loyalty goes both ways.

But then, this is Rumplestiltskin. No ordinary man, and no ordinary lord of a castle. She thinks perhaps he does not care for the loyalty of those around him, those who work on his land and owe him fealty. Perhaps he only cares for their fear.

She wonders what he intends her to do, if there are no servants to supervise, no housework or food preparation to oversee. She wonders why he wanted her, if he has no place for her. He'd said it was because marriage was what she least wanted to give, but she thinks there must be more than that, because he is married to her as much as she is married to him.

There must be some place for her, or he would have asked for something else, she thinks. Surely there must be some place for her here.

She wants to ask, wants to demand answers from him, but she holds her tongue and watches him in silence. In time she will learn how he expects her to act, whether he expects silent obedience as she knows some men do, or whether he will allow her questions, welcome her comments. For now she must be silent, and begin to learn him.

Her silence seems to make him uncomfortable; his grin fades, his eyes narrow a little, and after a moment he waves a hand and takes a step backwards towards the door.

"I'll send up supper," he says again. "The castle will give you anything you require." Belle nods, and Rumplestiltskin turns and leaves, closes the door behind him. Belle does not collapse, not quite, but in the solitude of her rooms – the rooms he has given her as her own, rooms separate from his– she allows herself to give in to the grief and sorrow, allows herself to cry, just for a while.

For long minutes, she cries, standing still in the middle of the room, her hands covering her face. And then she tells herself to be brave, to be strong, and she stops crying. She takes off her cloak and looks for some place to put it; there are pegs near the door, so she hangs it there, and then begins to explore her rooms.

The sitting room is lovely, she decides, warm and cosy despite the cold of autumn that had crept under her skin and into her bones as Rumplestiltskin had led her up through the castle. The windows are large and will give enough light to work by, and the chairs are comfortable as she'd thought they would be. She wonders if this room was always so, or whether he has made it pleasant for her, made it a place where she can be relaxed.

The door in the corner leads to a bedroom, as well-appointed as the sitting room. The bed is larger than her own had been, in her father's castle, and Belle stands and stares at it for a moment. It's big enough for two, she thinks, and she wonders if Rumplestiltskin will stay after he beds her. He'd spoken of these rooms as hers, rather than theirs, and that makes her think he will not stay.

Her case is here, nestled between the bed and a clothes press, and Belle goes to it, unlocks it and lifts the lid. She wants to change even if she cannot bathe – but there's another door in this room, and she goes to it, opens it. The room revealed is small, and contains a chamber pot and wash stand, and also a bath tub, big enough to soak in.

Rumplestiltskin had told her the castle would give her anything she required, Belle remembers, and she steps towards the copper tub, runs a finger over the lip.

"Please," she whispers, feeling foolish and childlike to be asking this of stone and mortar, "please, may I have a hot bath?"

There's nothing to show anything has heard her words; the bath does not fill, the room does not grow steamy from the heat of the water. Belle sighs, turns away, intent on stripping herself of the wedding dress and managing without a bath. And then she hears a gurgle of water, a splash as it hits the copper, and she turns back to the bath. Slowly but surely, it is filling. She can't see any source, and she wonders how the magic works, whether the water comes from somewhere or is created from nothing.

She doesn't care, she decides. She whispers a thank you to the castle, and hurries back into the bedroom. It's hard to undo the laces of the dress herself, and her corset presents no lesser a problem, but somehow she manages. The dress she spreads on the bed, to be folded neatly later; her undergarments she simply discards in her haste to get into the tub.

Soap and towels are waiting for her in the little room, soap that smells of lavender and towels so soft she wonders what they are made of. The castle provides, she thinks, and wonders how long it will take her to grow used to such provision.

She does not think about Rumplestiltskin until she is in the bath and then she is seized with a sudden fear. Nobody but Sarah has seen her naked since she was a babe, and there is no lock on her door, no way to keep him out. And even locks, she knows, are no bar to Rumplestiltskin. If he wishes entrance to her rooms, he will gain it. If he decides to check on her, he will find her naked, and there is nothing she can do about it.

She reminds herself of the wedding bed that awaits, tells herself not to be foolish, and she leans her head against the side of the bath, closes her eyes and tries to relax.

The bath soothes her, both body and mind, the water just hot enough and the copper tub deep enough that she can submerge herself in it. It soothes her as she'd hoped it would, and for a while she lets thoughts of this strange castle and its strange lord drift away from her. She busies herself in washing, using the soap that the castle had provided and soaking her hair in the water, knowing she can dry it by the fire afterwards.

The bath water doesn't get cold, but after a while Belle's fingers and toes start to wrinkle so she gets out of the bath and wraps herself up in a towel, takes another to rub her hair dry. The bath empties slowly and with no visible drain, but Belle pushes the curiosity aside for now. There will be time, perhaps, to ask Rumplestiltskin how that particular magic works, if he proves amenable to questioning.

Belle thinks, with a tight smile, that if he does not want an inquisitive wife then he should not have asked for her as his price for her village's safety. She is who she is, and she does not think she can change even for the most powerful, most dangerous, being in the world.

She hurries through to her bedroom, which is warm enough that she doesn't have to rush into her nightgown, but she's aware of the passage of time, aware that Rumplestiltskin may come to her at any moment. She dries herself briskly and finds a nightgown at the top of her case, pulls it over her head and then rummages for her hair brush.

When her hair is neat and tied in a clumsy plait, Belle goes back into the sitting room. She takes her used towels with her, and spreads them before the fire to dry. One of the chairs is close to the fire and there's a knitted blanket flung over the back that she's sure wasn't there earlier. There's a table in the middle of the room, and she _knows_ the tray that's on it wasn't there when she'd left the room to have her bath.

Supper, as he'd promised, and Belle is too hungry to think further than that. She brings the tray to the chair near the fire, curls up and sates her hunger on the stew and the thick slice of freshly-baked bread. When she's finished she puts the tray on the floor rather than getting up again, and pulls the blanket from the back of the chair, tucks it around herself. The fire is warm and she's so tired she could almost fall asleep without moving, although she knows the bed would be far more comfortable.

She doesn't want to go to bed, doesn't want to make herself that vulnerable, because she knows he must be coming. This is their wedding night, and if he does not lay with her, she is afraid the wedding – the deal – will not be validated.

She's afraid, and she can't help but remember what Laura had said, about different kinds of men and the pleasure, or lack of it, that might be found in a marriage bed.

Laura had told her not to dwell on the things she can't change, and Belle knows that's good advice, but as she sits here – in this strange place, far from the people she's known and loved all her life – she can't help but dwell on it. She can't help but be afraid.

And yet fatigue pulls at her, tiredness threatens to send her to sleep. Her limbs are weary, her mind hardly less so, and her chair is so comfortable, the fire so warm, that she feels herself slipping further into sleep with each passing moment.

She dreams of someone touching her, someone stroking her hair and her face with a gentle hand, but it doesn't disturb her enough to pull her into wakefulness. It's soft, such a light touch, as if in her dreams someone is touching her who loves her, and it's a good dream.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes slowly, aware that something has changed but unable to recognise what until her brain emerges from the fog of sleep. She's in bed, in the large bed in her new bedroom, and somebody has tucked her into the blankets so carefully that it's almost a struggle to push them away and sit up.

It's daylight, and the sun beams in through the windows; the curtains had not been shut the night before, and Belle winces a little as her eyes adjust to the light.

Unless the castle's magic has done it – and from what she has seen so far, Belle would not put it beyond the reach of that magic – somebody must have carried her from the armchair into her bed. Somebody, and there is nobody else in the castle except Rumplestiltskin.

But why, she wonders, did he not wake her? Why did he not claim a husband's right? She can't understand it, can't understand why he withheld. He has been generous to her so far, but she cannot expect that generosity to be without bounds.

There is some part of her, she realises uncomfortably, that feels almost rejected by it. She knows herself to be pretty, although she hopes vanity is not one of her flaws. She knows the way men look at her, and although she's not seen that openly lustful look in Rumplestiltskin's face, she knows she is attractive to many men. She wonders once again why he asked for her as his price, if he has no intention of…of making full use of her.

There must have been something in it for him; there always is. The stories are clear on that.

Still, Belle knows she won't find the answer by staying in bed, so she pushes aside the covers and braves the cold morning air. Her clothes are still in the case she brought with her, her undergarments from yesterday still strewn across the floor, and she dresses as quickly as she can, without someone to help her lace up her corset and dress. She's unaccustomed to managing alone, although she knows she will have to do so now. Her hair is easier; she brushes it briskly and ties it away from her face with a ribbon.

The tray from last night is gone when she goes through into the sitting room, and another has replaced it on the table. Breakfast this time, eggs and bread and several rashers of bacon that smell delicious. There's tea too, and Belle pours herself a cup and stirs in sugar, wonders if she will take all her meals alone like this. She hopes not; she wishes to be acquainted with her husband, at least a little, particularly if they truly are alone in the castle.

She thinks her life will be very lonely if he does not allow her that. If he remains a stranger to her, she will be so very alone.

She eats her breakfast and drinks her tea, and then she ventures out. Rumplestiltskin had said nothing about remaining in her rooms, and Belle will not sit waiting for his attention. She wants to know her new home, to explore it as much as she is allowed, to begin to know the place where she will live for the rest of her life.

And, she admits to herself, she wants to see him, as well. She wants to know why he had not come to her, although she will probably not find the courage to ask him. She wants to know her place, and what rules he may have to govern her conduct, and if there is anything he wishes her to do in this strange castle that runs on magic.

The castle is quiet. She cannot remember her father's castle ever being so quiet, even in the dead of night. Always there had been noise and movement, and Belle's every waking moment had been occupied. This quiet is strange, and unsettling. Belle feels jumpy as she tries to remember her way back down to the great hall, tries to navigate the strange passages and staircases.

She gets lost several times, turns corners and finds herself in seemingly endless corridors with closed doors, goes down staircases only to find herself having to turn back, and she wonders if she will ever know her way around. She doesn't dare open any of the doors; although this is her home now, it is still a strange place, owned by a strange man, and she doesn't dare take any liberties. Not yet, at least. Not until she knows him better.

At last she finds herself at the top of the large staircase in the entrance hall, and she descends slowly, straining her ears for any sound of him. There is something, a rhythmic sound from the great hall, and Belle gathers her courage and slips through the open door.

Rumplestiltskin is at his spinning wheel; the sound is the turning of the wheel, the motion of the simple piece of machinery, and he is spinning straw into fine gold. Belle gasps at it, and he glances up but doesn't move otherwise, says nothing to check her when she moves towards him through the dark room. The curtains, she sees with a quick glance, are still drawn, but the spinning wheel holds more fascination for her and she hurries to look closer.

"How do you do it?" she asks, fascinated. She bends over the thread, tries to spot the moment when straw turns to gold, but the magic is too subtle; it always seems to happen where she's not looking. "It's incredible!" she breathes, and his quiet laughter recalls her to herself. She blushes, straightens and takes a step back. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to…"

"Curiosity isn't a sin," Rumplestiltskin remarks. He stops spinning, but doesn't rise; he sits there and looks at her, and she can't read his expression. "It's old magic," he says after a long moment, curt and abrupt, and Belle clasps her hands together and tries not to be put off by it. "Not many know it, now." He rises, comes around the wheel but doesn't step too close to her. She thinks perhaps he's trying to be respectful, trying to allow her space. He's discarded his dragon-skin coat, she sees; his shirt is silk, and his collar high. It suits him, and she's a little startled when she realises she thinks that. "You found your way down, then." Belle nods, remains silent. "It's a large place," Rumplestiltskin continues, "but I'm sure you'll manage. In time."

"Yes," Belle murmurs. "I – I'm a fast learner. I'll learn where everything is." She hesitates, and he waits, tilts his head to one side. She thinks he's amused at her, thinks there's laughter hiding behind his eyes, but she can't tell if it's the malicious amusement he's displayed before. "Is there anywhere I shouldn't go?" she ventures, and Rumplestiltskin bares teeth in a grin.

"Yes," he says. He folds his hands together in front of him, rocks back on his heels. "There are doors that will not open to you," he says, and he is malicious now, just a little. There is cruelty making his voice a little higher in pitch, a little harsher. Belle refuses to be intimidated, refuses to be scared. He is her husband now, and she does not want to be afraid of him. "Do not try to open them," he tells her.

There's something dangerous in his words, something that makes Belle want to shiver and hide from his fierce gaze, but she refuses to give in to the impulse.

"Of course," she murmurs, and lowers her eyes. If she comes across a door that will not open, closed to her through lock or magic, she will not try to gain entrance, and she will not ask him what lies behind the doors. Her curiosity might rage – she knows herself well enough to admit that she cannot conquer her curiosity entirely – but she will not ask.

"There are grounds," he says then, almost careless, and he turns away from her, goes to the table and pours himself a cup of tea from the tea set laid out there. Two cups, Belle notes, and wonders if she should join him. "You're free to wander." He laughs, shrill and harsh and Belle can't help a shiver. "I don't advise you try to go past the walls, though," he tells her. "I don't think you'd enjoy that."

Belle swallows her fear. "If you say I must not go past the walls, I will not," she says. He makes a sound, disbelief and scorn, and Belle knows only time will allow him to learn that she will keep her word, that she will not run away. She has given her word, she is his wife, and she will be loyal to him no matter what he thinks.

No matter how he may choose to treat her, but she does not think he will be cruel. He's shown her nothing of cruelty, except a little in the deal he offered and the swiftness of her parting from her father and friends. But she had chosen to accept the deal; he had not forced it upon her. No, she does not think he will be cruel to her, and she will offer him nothing less than her loyalty.

And perhaps in time trust will grow; perhaps there will even be fondness of a sort. She cannot think of love, not from Rumplestiltskin, but trust, and companionship – those she may look for, in time.

He leans against the table, eyes glittering a little, mouth pursed in a frown, and Belle wonders if she should leave, wonders what she should do now. She can't seem to speak – her mouth is dry – and he seems equally disinclined to conversation now, seemingly content to watch her. He doesn't seem to be pleased with her discomfort, though, which she thinks is something. If he wanted such a reaction, she thinks he would not hesitate to show his pleasure at gaining it.

She licks her lips, tries to find words, catches the way his gaze darts down, just briefly, to her mouth. It is perhaps the first sign that he is a _man_, that he might have desire after all – no, not the first sign, for she recalls the way he looked at her the evening before when she had cleaned herself and dressed in her mother's wedding dress. Perhaps he did not marry her because of any need or want for her, but she thinks there may be desire nonetheless.

It only confuses her further, for she cannot understand why, if he does desire her, he would not come to her when she was fed and bathed. Any other man would have come to her rooms and taken what is his by rights as her husband. And yet this is not any other man: this is Rumplestiltskin the deal-maker. She must not think of him as any other man.

"Is there anything I should do?" she asks, finally pulling words from her mouth. He's startled, but it's hastily concealed behind a smirk, and Belle rushes to continue. "At home – I mean, my father's home – I had duties. Work to do. If there are no people here…what should I do?"

He shrugs, and waves a hand, an elaborate gesture in the air. "Whatever you wish," he says. "I'm sure you can occupy yourself. I've no need of you."

"No need –" Belle cuts herself off abruptly, refuses to continue as his expression lights up with the malevolence he seems to wear as a cloak. No need of her, and yet she is the price he asked, and she has given it – if not quite gladly, then certainly willingly and wholeheartedly. No need of her. No need of a wife, or of someone to run his household. No need of a companion or even a lover. No need of her.

She swallows hard, _refuses_ to cry in front of him. He's waiting for it, she can tell. His eyes dart over her face, down to her hands twisting together, and up again. But it's not quite malice, not quite cruelty; there's something else in his expression that she can't understand, and right now she doesn't care to try to understand it. She looks at him for a moment longer, until she trusts herself enough to turn and walk away without running.

Belle leaves the room at a steady pace, and closes the door behind her. Even then she does not give in to the hollow ache inside her at being told her husband has no need of her, that there is no _use_ for her here. She wants to put distance between them, and she picks a doorway at random, walks for long minutes until she decides she's far enough.

Then she leans against the wall and takes deep breaths, breathing through the urge to cry. She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, and tries to think of how she can come to terms with this idea of having no use, no purpose. No place.

She must create her own place, she decides. If Rumplestiltskin has no need of her, she will create work to occupy herself and will never become burdensome to him. She will never ask for companionship or occupation, and if he seeks her out, she will be as pleasant and welcoming as possible, but hope for no more.

Perhaps he will never come to her bed; she isn't sure what that might mean for their deal, but he's said to never break a deal, so she must assume that her village will be safe so long as she remains here as his wife, in whatever capacity he allows her. If that means simply living in this castle – the Dark Castle – then that is what she will do.

He has told her to occupy herself, in whatever manner she wishes; and he has told her that the castle will provide whatever she needs. Belle can work with that, she can create something for herself with what he has given her.

It will not be easy, she knows, but Belle can face hardship. She can face loneliness, even. She will remind herself every day for the rest of her life why she can and must face these things.

She is saving her village, and she will make her mother proud.

Today, she decides, she will explore the castle and try to find the important rooms. The kitchens, she thinks, will probably be in roughly the same place as her father's kitchen, relative to the great hall. She will find the kitchen, and the associated storerooms, and once she has familiarised herself with those, she will attempt to find her way back to her own rooms, and learn the route between them.

The castle clearly provides food, she thinks as she begins her search, but the process of cooking it will be interesting to discover; she wonders how food goes from storeroom to oven or pots and then onto a plate. It's possible, she realises as she wanders down a hallway and turns a corner, that she will not be able to find out how it's done. It might be like the magic of Rumplestiltskin's spinning wheel, too subtle to put her finger on. Perhaps the castle only works when nobody is looking, the way her bath had filled the night before.

She can cook, a little – Laura's mother had made sure she could cook a few basic things, and Belle has often helped in the kitchens, particularly over the last year or so as manpower had become increasingly scarce. She will cook, she thinks determinedly, and will try to increase the range of what she can cook. She can prepare meals for the two of them, perhaps, and try to make him see she is not useless and not a burden.

She will make her own place.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle settles herself down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a large slice of bread and butter, and stretches before she begins to eat. It had taken her nearly an hour to find the kitchen, and since then she's found the scullery, the larder, and a well-stocked still room.

The kitchen is well-lit, and an outside door leads to a walled yard and, she presumes, a kitchen garden beyond. She hasn't ventured out there beyond getting water from the pump, too discouraged by the cold. She's lit the fire in the hearth, and there's a basket of logs beside it that she can use to feed it. When that's empty she supposes she must find more, or ask the castle to provide it. For now, the fire is giving off a good heat and she has managed to find kettle, cups and tea leaves adequate for providing a cup of tea. Milk, bread and butter had been found in the larder, but she's seen no sign of _how_ the larder provides such things.

It's something to think about later; for now she tucks into her lunch, and tries not to think about Rumplestiltskin.

It still hurts, his comment that he has no need of her. She has fulfilled many purposes in her life, performed many duties, from daughter to nurse, but always she has been needed. Always she has been useful. Now she is neither, and despite her intention to create a purpose for herself, she feels a little lost.

The silence is oppressive, too. Belle is unused to solitude, unused to the silence that goes with it. Her moments alone had been precious and rare, in her father's castle, but even when alone she had been surrounded by _people_. There had always been an awareness that there was somebody in the next room, or in the hallway. She had always been able to hear the sounds of people going about their business in the castle.

Here there is no such feeling, and the silence presses in on her. She's found herself needing to make noise just to combat it; humming or even singing a little in her explorations. She's never been one to sing as she worked, not like some of the women who work in her father's kitchen, but she's needed some sound today to fill up the great chasm of emptiness that surrounds her.

It almost makes her want to shiver, sitting now at the table. It's something she'll have to get used to, but it will take time.

There is so much to get used to, and Belle is trying not to feel overwhelmed by it all.

She finishes her bread, drinks her tea, and ponders what to do now. She's explored the kitchen and storerooms thoroughly – has been impressed with what she's seen, the castle is well-stocked and seems free from mice or rats – and she wants to see more of the castle. She's a little nervous, though, a little afraid of running into Rumplestiltskin.

That makes her cross with herself. She doesn't want to be scared of him, and he's done nothing to engender that response, not exactly. He's careless and perhaps malicious, but not actively seeking to harm her. He makes her uncomfortable, and seems to push for that response at times, but he's not…he's not cruel. Not in the way Belle was afraid he would be.

He just has no use for her, and that stings her pride more than anything else, she thinks.

She washes her plate and cup in the big stone sink, filled with the leftover hot water from the kettle, and sets them on the draining board to dry. Then she makes sure the fire has plenty of fuel, and leaves the kitchen.

Belle picks a direction at random and begins walking – slowly, peering into rooms as she goes, trying to make note of the important rooms so she will remember where they are. The castle is larger than her father's castle, and many of the rooms stand empty; she wonders if they have ever been used, if other people ever lived here.

She finds the armoury, weapons neatly stacked on shelves or displayed in racks. There is a liberal coating of dust over everything, and she frowns as she swipes her finger across a shelf, inspects her dirty finger. The kitchen and storerooms had not been dusty, but perhaps the castle's magic knows the kitchen must be kept clean. That is a purpose, she decides, and smiles despite herself. She can clean the castle, sweep and wipe away the dust. It will take a long time, she judges, but it will keep her occupied.

Later, she resolves, she will try to find cleaning supplies. There must be some in the castle somewhere, and she can always manufacture dusters out of other things. Sheets or old clothing can be re-used as cleaning rags, and she pauses for a moment, thinks about the things she's brought with her and wonders if she can use one of her sheets as dusters. The sheets on her bed upstairs are crisp and new; her own sheets are not as nice as the ones she has found here. Still, she doesn't think she can justify tearing apart a new sheet just for cleaning rags.

It's not a decision she needs to make now, and she leaves the armoury, closes the door behind her and continues her exploration.

She finds a tower and a winding staircase, and starts climbing, counting the steps as she goes to try to get some idea of how high the castle goes. She stops somewhere after a hundred, concentrates instead on trying not to get out of breath; she needs more exercise, she decides, and stops at a window, grateful for the breeze. She leans out and stares, her mouth open, at the mountains that surround the castle.

Mountains, which means this castle must be very far from her father's village, and the realm in which he is knight. The country there is flat, with marshes that give the land its name, and Belle has never travelled far from home. Certainly she's never seen mountains before, and these are covered in snow even now, halfway through autumn.

The North Mountains, she deduces. Well, she supposes it makes sense. People have gone further north – there are stories of explorers, of foolhardy princes in search of adventure – but the mountains are vast, and few of the adventurers have ever returned. Most people assume the mountains are impassable, and certainly she's never heard of anybody managing to get through.

She wonders, now, if there is anybody living near at all. Rumplestiltskin is clearly a man who values solitude, and although she'd assumed there must be a settlement of some kind connected with the castle – people who owe loyalty to Rumplestiltskin, who pay tithes to him and for whom he is at least in part responsible – she wonders now if this castle is even more isolated than she'd assumed.

She'd hoped there would be other people, if not in the castle then at least nearby. But, she reminds herself, Rumplestiltskin has forbidden her from leaving the castle grounds. Whether there is a town or not, she will not meet anyone except him.

She's caught her breath, and it's cold by the window – barely more than an arrow slit in the wall – so she resumes climbing the stairs. There are doorways leading off the staircase at every floor, but Belle ignores them for now, keeps going right to the top.

There's a door at the top, and it opens when she lifts the latch, leads out onto a walkway. Belle wishes she'd thought to bring a cloak, because the wind is fierce here, and she shivers but refuses to go inside. The view is too magnificent for cold to turn her away, and she leans against the outer wall and stares at the mountains around her.

It's beautiful, and the air feels so fresh up here; she breathes deeply, fills her lungs, and can't help a smile as she leans out and surveys her new home. She may not be able to leave the grounds, but she will not want for fresh air, and it's peaceful up here. The silence is not so oppressive; in fact it's rather refreshing.

The grounds, she can see, are quite extensive. There's a wall that runs around the castle, but it's a good distance from the castle itself, and encompasses lawns and gardens and even an orchard. She wonders what kind of fruit can grow this far up the mountains; tomorrow, when she ventures out, she'll go and see.

She won't want for exercise, she thinks, and there's some relief in that. She won't be confined to the walls of the castle, will be able to leave and walk in the grounds, to explore and perhaps to garden. If there is not a kitchen garden already, she could start one – if she can find seeds for plants. The castle may provide, as it seems to provide other things. If not her choices will be between giving it up, or asking Rumplestiltskin. She's not sure which would be worse.

Somehow, she thinks, she must manage some communication with him. She will go mad if she never speaks to another living thing, if she has no companionship. He may have no need of her, no use for her, but he cannot _ignore_ her, not now that she is here.

And there must have been some reason for his choice of price – something other than knowing that of all things she did not want to marry.

She turns and surveys the castle, her new home. It's large, as she had thought from her explorations, far larger than her father's castle. It could take her weeks to learn everything, she thinks now – months, even. Perhaps that shouldn't dismay her, perhaps she should focus on it as a source of activity, but all she can think about is how quiet the castle is. How lonely she will be.

She will not cry. She will be brave and strong and dignified as her mother was, and she _will not cry_.

She turns again and stares out at the castle grounds, and further afield, at the mountains that rise up all around. She looks for a village, for some sign that the mountains have occupants other than herself and Rumplestiltskin. Smoke from a chimney, or livestock grazing on the mountain – any sign that she might not be sentenced to being alone forever.

But tears sting her eyes, and the wind is so strong it pulls the ribbon from her hair. Belle cries out in exasperation, reaches to catch it, but her hair is whipped into her face, and she can't see anything. She shakes her head, trying to free her face from hair, feels the ribbon slipping through her fingers and reaches out to catch it.

She leans too far, her feet slip, and there is one terrifying moment where she thinks she's going to fall, one horrifying moment when she overbalances and she can feel herself start to tip over the wall.

Then a hand grasps her dress and pulls her back, and she stumbles backwards into Rumplestiltskin's chest. He doesn't release her, not at once, and she stands shivering, feeling the weight of his hand between her shoulder blades and the other at her waist.

She breathes, feels the panic slowly start to subside.

"That," he says, and his voice is low and full of some emotion she can't name, "was very foolish, dearie."

"I – I was trying to catch my ribbon," Belle manages, and wonders why he doesn't let go, wonders why he's still holding her pressed against him. "The wind – it's –"

"You nearly killed yourself over a _ribbon_?" He sounds bemused, and perhaps a little angry, and abruptly he pulls his hands from her. Belle turns around slowly as he takes a step away from her, and she bites her lip at the look on his face.

Perhaps, she thinks now, he does care a little already. He may have no use for her, but perhaps it matters to him that she is here, and that she is safe.

"I'm sorry," she says, contrite and humbled by what she sees in his eyes, the hint of fear that still lingers there. "It was foolish of me."

"Very," he says, almost snapping. "Well, have you seen enough, my lady? Does it please you to come inside now?"

"You said I might go anywhere if a door opened for me," Belle murmurs, almost too softly, the wind snatching at the words as they leave her mouth. But he hears, and his lip curls into a snarl for a moment before softening again.

"So I did," he admits. "But I hardly thought to find you trying to fling yourself off the roof." He bows slightly, gestures for her to precede him back along the walkway to the door in the tower. Belle doesn't object; she's seen enough for now, at least, and she can tell she's frightened him more than he wants to admit.

He walks close behind her, and when she steps into the tower he nudges her forward with a hand on her elbow so he can close the door behind them. She goes down a few steps, then turns and glances up at him when he doesn't follow. He's watching her, eyes dark and mouth pressed into a thin line.

She wants to apologise again, but she's not sure why; she hadn't intended to scare him, but she isn't sure why she should care when he's been so offhand with her. And yet he _was_ scared, a few moments ago, and that makes her wonder.

She doesn't speak, and after a moment Rumplestiltskin waves a hand to motion her onwards.

"Down we go," he says, his voice pitched high. "Don't dawdle now, dearie."

Belle bites her tongue and goes down the stairs, feels his gaze on her as he follows. She almost expects him to leave, to turn off at one floor or another and disappear back to the great hall, or wherever else he's been during the morning, but he stays with her until they are on the ground floor.

They look at each other then, and Belle tries not to feel uncomfortable, tries to quell the urge to flee from that assessing stare. It feels as if he's looking inside her mind and soul, trying to decipher who she is, and she feels horribly exposed. Just as she had three nights before, she thinks, when she'd called for him and had felt bare in her nightgown. He looks as her as if he can see everything she is, and is trying to judge her worth.

"Tea," he says finally, and Belle blinks, frowns faintly.

"Sir?" she questions, and Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, mouth twisting in a scowl.

"My name," he says. "Use it. You called me, you've given yourself to me, you may use my name. I am not your master."

"No," says Belle. "No, you are my husband." She almost holds her breath, and he looks at her for a long moment before he nods.

"Tea," he repeats. "You may make tea."

It's a peace offering, Belle thinks, an apology cloaked in an instruction, but it's something. He is allowing her to have a purpose for him, and if it is tea to begin with, perhaps it will be more later. It's more than she expected, and sooner than she hoped.

He's waiting for an answer, watching her with slightly narrowed eyes, as if expecting a refusal. Belle manages a smile, nods her head.

"Of course," she says. "In the great hall?" He nods, silent, and Belle glances around to orientate herself, recognises the passage she'd come from earlier and the way back to the kitchen. "I won't be long…Rumplestiltskin."

"Good," he says, and clears his throat. It's such a human thing, and it makes him feel more human, just for a moment – just until she glances at him and sees the colour of his skin and the darkness of his eyes. Still, she thinks he's perhaps human enough, and she wonders once more why he had not come to her bed last night.

She feels herself blush and she turns to go before he can catch sight of her reddened cheeks. He calls her back before she's taken more than a few steps and, uncertain, Belle pauses and turns.

He's holding a ribbon one hand – not her own ribbon but another, golden in colour. He grasps her shoulder and turns her so she's facing away from him, and she holds her breath as he strokes a hand through her hair before tying it back. His fingers brush against her neck and something flutters in her stomach.

"There," he murmurs, and withdraws his hands. "Run along now, dearie."

Embarrassed, confused, Belle obeys.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: M

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

Belle eats supper alone, as she has eaten since arriving in the Dark Castle, and she knows if she wishes for it to be otherwise she will have to push the point, will have to seek him out.

He thinks himself a beast, she remembers. He said, last night when she was newly arrived, that she would not want to eat her first meal with the beast sitting across the table. But she does not think him a beast; he has not been monstrous to her, except a little in the abruptness of her parting with her father.

She wishes to eat with him, but she feels somehow that this is as new for him as it is for her. She feels he is unused to sharing this castle with any other living being. She will wait, she decides, and try it another day.

The fire in her sitting room is lit when she reaches it, the curtains drawn and tapers and candles lit all around. The castle's magic providing what she needs, and Belle wonders how long it will take before she is used to it. Perhaps not long at all; perhaps in just a few days or weeks she will be accustomed to the way the castle seems to work, changing things or providing things whenever she's not looking.

For now it's still strange, and Belle tries to push the strangeness aside as she goes through to the bedroom to change for the night. It takes all her concentration to unlace her dress and corset, and she wonders if she can find some cloth and make new dresses, ones that lace at the front and so don't require help to be laced properly.

Perhaps, she thinks, she can ask him. Not tomorrow, but soon. The tea this afternoon had been almost pleasant, after all, the harshness of their earlier interaction easing into something that she thinks might become comfortable, in time. He'd told her to take tea with him, rather than asked, but he hadn't done so curtly, and he'd been courteous while they drank – although tending towards silence rather than conversation. He'd asked what she had found in her explorations, and Belle had spoken of the kitchen, and wondered at the magic of the castle. He'd almost smiled at that, almost become warm for a moment.

When they'd finished, Belle had taken the tray and tea things back to the kitchen and washed them, but she'd felt a little better, a little happier. A little more hopeful that he does not expect her to be wholly alone, after all.

Belle finally manages to strip herself to her shift, folds her clothing over the case so she can wear it again tomorrow, and sits on the bed to brush her hair. The bed makes her think of Rumplestiltskin again, makes her think of the part of marriage that he has shunned.

Perhaps, she thinks, he will come tonight. Perhaps last night he had been thinking of her, thinking of her weariness and the shock of leaving everything she has ever known behind her. Perhaps tonight he will come to her and make her his wife in deed as well as word. If he doesn't, she…well, she doesn't quite think she can ask him why not, but she thinks it will hurt, a little. She thinks it is a rejection of sorts, although he doesn't look at her quite the way other men have. There is something there, though – something of lust, perhaps. The way he'd looked at her when she appeared in her wedding dress, the way he watches her mouth at times.

The softness of his touch when he'd tied her hair back.

The ribbon he'd used is next to her on the bed and she picks it up, runs it through her fingers. It feels like fine silk but there's something else in it, and she takes it through to the sitting room, kneels on the floor by the fire so she can see it better.

Gold thread runs through the ribbon, regular stripes down its length, and Belle thinks about his spinning, thinks about the gold thread he spins from straw, and for a moment she feels dizzy. For a moment she can't breathe.

It means something, she's sure, but she can't quite put her finger on what.

She takes a deep breath, and another, and doesn't think about the decision she makes now. She rises and plaits her hair, using the ribbon to secure the ends, and then she takes the knitted blanket from the chair and wraps it around herself. This is not a wise decision, she thinks, but she doesn't care right now. She needs to find him, to ask…

She'll think about her words when she finds him; she leaves her rooms and starts down the corridor, shivering as she goes. She should have dressed again, is wearing only her shift, stockings and the blanket, but she knows if she'd lingered she would have changed her mind, lost her bravery. This is better, despite the cold.

She remembers the way back down to the entrance hall, and she can hear the spinning wheel in the great hall; she wonders, briefly, if he spends all his time there. He must have a room somewhere, must do other things – he's famed as a magician, and she's heard stories from every corner of the realms of the deals he makes. He must travel, and she wonders if he will leave her here alone when he next sets out.

She reminds herself of Laura's advice: _don't fret over things you can't control_. What will happen when he leaves is outside her control, and it may not happen for some days or weeks. For now she must be brave and seek the answers she needs.

She enters the hall, and Rumplestiltskin glances up; his hands cease their movement, and Belle swallows, feels his gaze raking across her, feet in stockings and dressed only in her shift, the knitted blanket wrapped around herself. Her plait is swung forward over her shoulder, the gold ribbon on display, and she wonders what he sees, wonders what he thinks.

She can't move, stands just inside the doorway and clutches the edges of her blanket tightly in her hands. Rumplestiltskin can't seem to look away from her, and his hand flutters through the air for a moment.

His voice, when he speaks, is flat and harsh. It's not the high-pitched tone she's already learning to dread, but there's something else there, something she can't recognise because she doesn't know him well enough yet.

"Is there a problem, my lady?"

"I – n-no," Belle stammers. She thinks this may have been a bad idea, but she is here now, and can't turn back without further questioning.

"Then should you not be in bed?" he asks, and he turns away from her then, returns to his spinning, as if he presumes the conversation is now over. Belle feels a little braver when he is no longer looking at her, and she steps further into the room, pads across the cold stone floor towards him. The wheel stops; his hands still.

"Go to bed," he says, but doesn't look at her. Belle stops a few feet away from him. She's shaking, but she is here now, and she can't turn back.

"Do I – do I displease you?" she manages to ask. He looks up sharply then, mouth pressed in a thin line. Belle almost takes a step back at his expression, fierce and distant. She holds her ground, tries not to shiver. "Am I not…" She trails off; her cheeks are burning and she can't look at him any longer, drops her gaze to the ground, to the stone flagstones beneath her feet.

"Are you not _what_?"

Miserable, confused, Belle can't speak. She hears him rise and glances up to see him turning away – then he turns back to her, a snarl on his mouth, and Belle bites her tongue, clutches her blanket tightly. Fear grips her suddenly, and she hasn't been afraid of him before, not like this.

She shouldn't have come; but she is here.

"I thought you'd be pleased to be spared _that_ wifely duty," he hisses. "Did they warn you, my lady? Did they tell you I'd be cruel to you, but that you must do your duty?" Belle shakes her head, speechless, but Rumplestiltskin seems not to see her. "Did you imagine I'd want an unwilling woman in my bed?" he demands, and Belle chokes on a sob.

"No," she whispers. "I didn't –"

He steps close to her, grasps her shoulders and thrusts his face close to hers. She can see every line on his face, the roughness of his skin and the dark of his eyes.

"I could, you know," he says, voice slipping high, taunting her. "I could take you now. You'd not protest. I could make sure of that." She's shaking and hot tears spill down her cheeks; she can't look at him, and he shakes her a little. "So easily," he croons. "Magic can do many things, dearie, even make the unwilling willing."

"Please," she chokes, and Rumplestiltskin laughs that high-pitched laugh, sending shivers down her spine.

"Yes, you'd say that," he tells her. "_Please_, and _yes_, too. If I wanted you to."

Belle says nothing, closes her eyes. She can't hold her blanket anymore, and it would fall to the ground but for his grasp on her shoulders. Cruel, she thinks with the part of her mind that is still able to function. She'd thought he wouldn't be cruel, but this is cruel, taunting her with the things he could do if he decides to.

If he decides to do it. He could make her want it, could take her without consent and silence any protest, if he decides to do it.

"I'm a monster, dearie," he breathes, and his breath is hot on her face. "You know the stories."

Belle opens her eyes and looks at him, licks her lips and nods slowly. "Yes," she whispers. "But the stories don't say you force yourself on women."

Rumplestiltskin lets her go, shoves her away from him, and she stumbles backwards and trips on the hem of her shift and the blanket trailing around her feet. She falls to the floor and cries out, as much in surprise as pain, but in a moment he's beside her again, hands gentle as he helps her back to her feet. Belle is wary, shies away from him, and she hears him sigh.

"Go to bed," he says, oddly gentle now, strangely kind. "Your rooms are your own, my lady. You need not fear. I have no more desire for an unwilling lover than you have to be one."

Belle swallows hard, nods her head but can't seem to move. Rumplestiltskin lifts a hand and she controls herself, doesn't flinch as his fingers trail down her face, tracing the line of her jaw and then her mouth. He lingers for a moment at her lips, and even through her fear she can see that flash of desire once more, that hint that he _does_ desire her even though he says he will not take her unwillingly.

"Your rooms are your own," he repeats. "I will not come there unless you invite me. Do you understand, my lady?"

Belle doesn't nod, doesn't want to dislodge his finger from her mouth. She should not feel this way, she thinks wildly. He has scared her so terribly this evening, has taken her from everything she holds dear and has _scared_ her with terrible hints about what he can do if he chooses.

But his touch is gentle, and there is some new understanding growing within her, something she cannot quash.

He does not want an unwilling lover; he will not enter her rooms unless invited. Belle can't quite grasp the meaning of those things, not yet, but she knows it means _something_, knows his gentle touch means more than his cruelty.

"Do you understand?" he repeats, not impatient, still soft, as if coaxing her to something. Belle feels, for a moment, very young, very innocent. She wonders how old he is; the stories say he was born untold centuries ago, but she can't ask. Not now. He lifts his finger from her lips, and Belle nods slowly.

"Yes," she whispers. "I – I understand."

He looks weary now, ancient and unbending and terribly, achingly weary as he nods his head and takes half a step away from her. He bends, picks up her blanket and reaches to wrap it around her once again; Belle grasps the sides of it, holds it close and pretends she is imagining the way his hands linger.

"Go to bed, my lady," he says. "Sleep."

Belle nods again, but hesitates. Rumplestiltskin waits for her, tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed a little. Curious, but patient. There are things Belle wants to ask, things she wants to say, but it all dies away with the way he is looking at her.

"My name," she says at last. "You told me to use yours. Will you not use mine?" He says nothing, and Belle feels unaccountably disappointed and can't work out why. She nods once more, swallows hard, turns to leave. She's almost at the door before he speaks again, and she pauses but doesn't glance back at him.

"Sleep well, my lady," he says, and Belle knows he will be true to his word; he will not disturb her sleep. But he will not call her by name, for some unknown reason of his own, and that saddens her. She has always liked her name: her mother's choice, and Belle has so little left of her mother.

"Thank you," she says softly. "Goodnight, Rumplestiltskin."

She leaves him, winds her way back through the cold castle to her rooms. The fire is dying down a little, but the rooms are warm, and she goes to bed and lies awake for long hours, staring into the darkness and thinking of the strange, unpredictable man she has married.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It's mid-morning before Belle sees Rumplestiltskin.

She'd woken early, dressed in the grey light of pre-dawn, found her cloak and sturdy leather shoes and gone out into the grounds. She hadn't roamed far from the castle, intent more upon discovering if there is a kitchen garden than wandering far, and she's pleased with the results of her exploration when she returns to the kitchen to begin a search for gardening tools – or to ask the castle to show her where they are.

She doesn't expect him to be in the kitchen. Somehow it seems separate from him, so distant from the great Rumplestiltskin, and she pauses in the kitchen doorway, hesitates when he nods his head at her but otherwise seems content to continue making himself tea.

She wonders why he does not use magic for it; she wonders if perhaps tea is something too subtle even for his magic.

She walks around the kitchen rather than across it to keep her distance from him, goes to the sink and washes her hands in the water she'd fetched earlier. She can _feel_ him in the room with her, a heavy presence, a prickling up her spine, but when she glances at him he seems wholly occupied with pouring boiling water into a cup.

No, she sees, two cups. One for her as well, and she glances away, confused. He confuses her so much; curt and abrupt at one moment, pushing her away and distancing himself, and in the next moment doing things such as this, gentle things that seem designed to offer peace. As if he wants her to like him, and yet does not want to want it.

Perhaps she's over-thinking it, she reflects as she dries her hands. Perhaps he's simply being polite.

"You haven't eaten."

She jumps, startled, and turns to find him standing close to her, holding a cup and saucer out to her. One eyebrow is lifted, almost daring her to take it. Belle is not one to back down from a challenge, so she reaches out, takes the saucer with both hands and offers him what she hopes is a pleasant smile.

"I wasn't hungry," she excuses herself. "I went out quite early."

"So I saw." The words fill the space between them for a moment – the implication that he is watching her. But Belle has already grasped as much, by the way he saved her from falling, yesterday afternoon. He is watching; he will continue to watch, she imagines, until he is sure she will not try to run and will not attempt to do him harm.

"Do the grounds please you?" he asks, and she's struck by the phrasing of it. She almost feels that if she says no, he will alter whatever she wishes altered. That scares her, a little, and she forces herself to nod.

"It's lovely," she says. "If a little colder than I'm used to." His smile is thin, but there's something of approval in his face for a moment before he steps away to retrieve his own tea. "I found the kitchen garden," Belle says then, and he glances back at her, waits for her to continue. "May I work on it? If – are there tools I could use?"

"Yes," he says, and he seems surprised, looks at her strangely now. She _has_ surprised him, she thinks, and it's not the first time. She remembers how he'd looked at her, that night in her bedroom, when she'd told him she would do anything to save her people. Somehow she feels she is not what he expected. "If you wish," he says at last. "There are tools in a shed, somewhere out there." He gestures a hand at the kitchen door, and Belle nods. She hasn't seen a shed, but then she hasn't explored much outside. "Let the castle know if you require anything further," he adds. "I can't see you'll get much joy of it. We're rather high up, dearie, and the winters are harsh."

"I should like to try," says Belle. "Thank you."

He makes a noise, disgruntled or surprised or both, and he lifts his cup to his mouth, sips his tea. Belle follows suit, leans back against the sink and lifts her cup from the saucer. The tea is good, prepared just the way she likes it, and she wonders how he knows how she takes her tea. She wonders at the care he has taken to prepare it for her, when last night…

She will not think of last night, she tells herself, feeling an echo of the fear she'd felt. She will not think of it.

"You'll eat at lunch."

Belle glances up at him again, but he's not looking at her; he seems to find the contents of his teacup fascinating.

"I – yes," she says, uncertain. "I suppose so."

"You will," he says firmly, and he looks up at her just for a moment before he drains his cup and turns to set it on the kitchen table. "You'll not starve yourself, my lady."

"I didn't mean to – I wasn't hungry," Belle tries to excuse herself, but she can't help feeling a little warmth at the concern hidden beneath his barbed words. For it is concern, she's sure it's concern, even if she can't be sure _why_ he's concerned. "Of course I'll eat."

"And supper," he says, and he doesn't look at her but his back is straight, his hands rest on the table and she bites her lip at the strangeness of his voice. "With me, in the great hall."

Belle licks her lips, puts the cup back onto the saucer. "Of course," she says softly. She can't say anything more, can't seem to find the right words. She doesn't know whether she should thank him for offering companionship, or whether he would take that the wrong way.

She doesn't know him, and he makes that clear with each encounter – each meeting so different from the last, his moods and the way he treats her so changeable. It makes her feel constantly unsure, and it's wearying. She hopes that in time she will learn him, learn how to please him so he is more often in his more pleasant moods.

"Enjoy your garden," he says, and he departs the kitchen without a backwards glance. Belle exhales when he's gone, relieved and almost guilty for feeling so. He's so _strange_, she thinks, and she hasn't been here two days yet. Two days is hardly any time at all to get used to being any man's wife, let alone the wife of a being like Rumplestiltskin. She must not feel guilty for feeling relieved; in time, she hopes, she will learn how to read him, and will be able to handle his moods better.

Still, supper with him in the great hall is more than she had yesterday, and although she's sure it will be uncomfortable, there is only one way she will get to know him better. Avoidance will not help either of them.

She finishes her tea and puts her cup with his on the table, to be re-used later if she has more tea. She pauses for a moment, looks down at his cup and thinks of him, of the stiffness of his back as he'd instructed her to eat with him tonight. Then Belle shakes herself, goes to the outside door and opens it wide enough to slip through. The weather is threatening rain – or perhaps snow, this far north and this far into autumn – and she wants to find the shed and the gardening tools before the skies open.

She lets herself enjoy the grounds a little more on this outing, huddling into her cloak as she walks slowly, letting her gaze drift around as she goes. The kitchen garden is close to the kitchen door, sheltered by high walls, but she's already seen that the shed isn't there, so she bypasses it, follows a path that leads around the castle walls and then away, the flagstones giving way to loose dirt. A hedge runs along her left side; the right is unenclosed, giving her a view down towards the large lawn she'd seen yesterday from the roof, and further away to the orchard.

Another day, she tells herself. The orchard – apples, she thinks – will still be there tomorrow, and she has a task for today already.

The path divides, and Belle hesitates for a moment. The right-hand fork seems to lead around the lawn, around a walled garden, and towards the orchard. The left-hand curves back towards the castle, and she ponders the options, tries to decide which way is more likely to lead to a shed.

She chooses left, and lifts her hood to cover her head as she goes, the wind buffeting her even through the windbreak of walls and trees. It's cold, cutting into her, and she knows she'll do no gardening today even if she finds the tools. The kitchen garden is choked with weeds, and she knows she can't plant much until spring, but she feels the need to throw herself into labour, to work as she has worked for months in the infirmary.

Busy hands make a busy mind, and Belle's mind is in such turmoil that she's desperate to occupy herself with hard work, desperate to distract herself from the confusion of her new situation.

The shed isn't far along the path; it's not locked, and Belle props the door wide open with a cracked flower pot she finds just inside. It's dark and musty inside, smells of soil and dust and old wood, and Belle pauses for a few minutes to let the wind blow into it and sweep away some of the smell. Then she enters, and peers through the darkness at the tools.

There are several more cracked flowerpots, but there are whole ones too, and a great pot that's almost big enough for her to climb into. The big pot is filled with tools – a hand fork, a hoe, a rake leaning up against its side. Things that Belle knows how to use, things she recognises, and it's almost a relief to find things that she can use to work with, after the strange magic of the castle that pushes aside the necessity for human effort.

There's a spade propped up against a wall, a fork and a broom next to it. There is enough here that Belle will be able to make something from the overgrown mess of the kitchen garden, and she's pleased by that. Magic may provide food, but food must come from somewhere. She can't help wondering where the food in the larder and the storerooms comes from. Things seem to replenish themselves, and she can't help wondering _how_.

She hopes the food is paid for, hopes the magic does not take food from those who need it, but she can't imagine Rumplestiltskin…no, she corrects herself, she _can_ imagine that he pays for what he takes. Nothing for nothing, that's his way, and she thinks it applies to himself just as much as anyone else. If the food comes from people's homes and gardens, if there is a village nearby that supplies the castle, she's sure he gives something in return.

Still, it will be nice to be able to provide for herself – or themselves, and Belle's not used to aligning herself with him, not in her mind. It will be nice to grow things, and to eat the things she's grown in the knowledge she has worked for her supper.

Belle has never been capable of idleness; always she has wanted work. In some ways, the war's closeness to her village had proved a blessing for her in that it created that work. Some ways, but Belle cannot feel grateful for it, not when so many have died.

Not when some of them died in her arms.

It starts to rain and Belle sighs, goes to the doorway of the shed and peers out. Within minutes it's a heavy downpour that she knows will soak her to the skin before she manages to reach the kitchen door. Still, she can't stay here until it stops – the shed is dark and small and hardly comfortable enough to remain in for any length of time. She's growing hungry too, the rumbling of her stomach a reminder that she hasn't eaten since supper last night.

Belle peers out of the door, looks up at the sky and decides the rain isn't going to ease soon enough for her to dash for the shelter of the castle; she steps out of the shed, closes the door, and _runs_. Her cloak is heavy with rain before she's got more than a few yards away from the shed, and by the time she reaches the kitchen garden her skirts are soaking, slapping painfully at her legs with every stride. The hood of her cloak has fallen off her head, and her hair is drenched, rivulets of water running down her neck and underneath her collar so even her torso isn't dry any longer.

Rumplestiltskin is waiting for her at the castle door. Of course, Belle thinks as he steps aside to let her pass. Of course he's waiting for her; he's watching her. Watching to make sure his new wife does not attempt to go past the walls, doesn't try to run from the beast in the castle.

"You seem to have a knack for getting yourself into difficulties, my lady," he says blandly as Belle removes her cloak and drapes it over a chair before the fire to dry. "I have married a most troublesome wife."

Belle hides a smile; he sounds almost amused, and she won't risk twisting the amusement into malice by showing a smile that he might misunderstood.

"Surely, sir, you don't blame me for the rain?" she asks, keeping her voice light and pleasant. She wrings out her hair – the floor will need mopping later anyway – and shivers. She's wet from head to toe; her shoes are stiff with damp, sore against her feet, and she hopes she hasn't worn a hole in a stocking.

"Hardly, dearie," he says, and he's closer than she realised; she turns and he's right in front of her, his eyes travelling slowly down her, those clever eyes seeing everything. The mud on her feet; the way her skirts cling indecently to her legs; her bodice, her chest heaving from the exertion of running; the trail of a drop of water down her neck. Belle's breath quickens at the look on his face, that look that's almost yearning.

Yes, she thinks, he desires her. And yet he could take his rightful place in her bed; she would not be unwilling, not exactly. She has given herself to him, she is his wife, and whilst she would not quite welcome him to her bed, his continued absence makes her feel somehow unwanted. Unwanted despite his desire, for he does desire her.

He lifts a hand, traces the line of a raindrop down her cheek, her throat, across the swell of her breasts above the line of her dress.

"A most troublesome wife," he decides at last, his fingertips returning to her mouth. Belle can hardly breathe; his forefinger runs across her lower lip. "No gardening today, dearie," he says then. "Stick to indoor pursuits." He removes his hand, and Belle nods, inhales shakily.

"Yes sir – Rumplestiltskin," she corrects herself quickly, before he can do more than lift an eyebrow. "I – I'll go and change into dry clothes now." He's so close to her that she can see the slight flicker of undisguised interest that crosses his face for a moment, before it's erased with a wide grin.

"Of course," he says. "Mustn't catch cold, dearie." He steps away, gives her more room, and Belle turns to go, her cheeks hot despite the cold that's setting in from the wet clothing she's wearing. She can feel him watching her, can feel his gaze on her back as she goes.

She pauses in the doorway when he speaks again, when he calls for her – not her name, he seems unwilling to call her by name. Dearie, he calls, and Belle stops, a hand on the doorframe, and does not turn back to look at him.

"Try not to get into any more trouble today, dearie," he says, his voice sliding high in warning, and Belle swallows hard, nods her head at once. She won't cross him, not when he sounds like this, not when his voice is high and the warning is clear. She will find some peaceful occupation, something that cannot possibly cause her to trip or get wet or in any way draw his attention to herself.

"Run along, then."

Belle goes.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It does not stop raining, or at least it does not stop for more than a few minutes at a time, for three days.

When it does finally stop raining, it's mid-morning and Belle is in the kitchen baking bread. She's decided to try to cook at least some of the food she eats. Bread is something she was taught to make as a child, something reasonably simple that she can produce without mistakes, and if the rest of her food isn't up to much, Rumplestiltskin hasn't commented.

The rain stops, and Belle leaves her bread in a bowl to rise, puts a clean cloth across it, and goes to the kitchen door. The wind is cold when she opens it, but the air is fresh and it's _not raining_. Belle thinks she would weather any amount of cold for some relief from the rain, and she stands on the doorstep and breathes in the air, smiles at the puddles that have overcome the small walled yard. It's wet and muddy still, but it will dry soon enough.

Rumplestiltskin's there when she turns to go back into the kitchen, has appeared without any sound to alert her to his presence, and she jumps at the sight of him. She hasn't seen him much over the past few days; they've shared supper each evening in the great hall, as he instructed, but he's been absent during the days. Not gone from the castle, she's sure, but he hasn't been at his spinning wheel.

She thinks he must have a study or workroom somewhere in the castle, somewhere she hasn't explored yet. She has wandered over more of the castle now, confined within the walls by the rain, but she's gone with a duster and broom, cleaning as she goes, and so her progress has been slow.

Some doors have not opened when she tried the handle, and she's left those, remembering his words of warning. Some rooms have been filled entirely with spools of gold thread, and she's left those too, made uneasy by the sheer quantity of gold contained within the castle.

He cannot have a use for it, she thinks. There must be some other reason for him to spin. Nobody could ever need that much gold.

"It's stopped raining," she says, and flushes at the inanity of the comment, lowers her gaze to the floor when he lifts an eyebrow and smiles a mocking smile. He says nothing, however, and Belle shifts her weight from one foot to the other, rubs at her cheek self-consciously to remove the flour she's sure is there.

"Would you like some tea?" she offers at last, lacking anything else to say.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin says, and he steps aside to let her move around the kitchen. The fire in the hearth is well-fuelled, and the kettle is filled already, so she carefully swings it over the fire, goes to the cupboard to fetch cups. She hears Rumplestiltskin scraping a chair across the floor, glances over her shoulder to see him taking a seat at the kitchen table. He peers at her bread, and Belle bites her lip to keep from smiling.

"The castle will provide, you know, dearie," he comments then.

"I know," says Belle cheerfully. "But I like doing it. And your castle does many wonderful things, but I don't want to rely on it."

"Hm." He leans back in his chair, folds his hands together and watches her. "Most noble ladies wouldn't know how to _bake_," he says, the emphasis making it sound derogatory, as if it's something she shouldn't stoop to doing. Belle shrugs her shoulders, goes to fetch the milk jug from the cold larder.

"I like it," she says again when she returns. "My father never…" She can't continue, her throat choked with emotion, and Rumplestiltskin watches her with narrowed eyes. Belle swallows, presses her lips together until she can control herself again. "Anyway," she says at last, "it was my duty to help where it was needed. Even in the kitchen."

"Duty," Rumplestiltskin mutters, as if it's a foul word, as if he dislikes the shape of it in his mouth. "That's why you called to me. Duty."

"Yes." The kettle boils, and Belle uses a cloth to pull it from the fire, pours a little water into the teapot to warm it, then discards the water and puts the tea leaves into the pot. She fills it, brings it to the table. "You were surprised," she says then, not quite looking at him. "You said that…that most nobles don't think about the people who fight their wars."

"True enough," says Rumplestiltskin, and he flicks his fingers, gesturing her to sit opposite him. She can find no reason to refuse, but she can't look at him as she sits, keeps her gaze on the wooden surface of the table. "I've found most nobles think not about the lives they waste," he adds, and there's a bite in his voice.

Belle nods slowly. "But I do," she murmurs. "It's not fair, to ask them to die for me." She lifts a hand to forestall the words she's sure are inevitable. "I know," she says. "Life isn't fair."

"A lesson learned the hard way, my lady?" he suggests, and Belle can't work out if he's taunting her or not, can't work out why he's asking.

She thinks of her mother, thinks of the life her mother could have lead had she not died. She thinks of the terrible waste of lives in the war, the men and women she has cared for and tended and soothed into death.

"No," she says at last. "No, I learned that lesson quite easily." She pours milk into the cups, adds the tea, and passes his cup across the table to him. He accepts it, and his fingers brush against hers. Belle's learned him well enough already to know that the touch is not accidental; every move Rumplestiltskin makes is deliberate, made for a purpose, and this will be no exception.

"Most noble ladies don't dust, either," Belle says then, determined to be cheerful, determined to steer the conversation away from duty and fairness and hard lessons. "But apparently your magical castle doesn't think it's important to clean."

"It's a castle," says Rumplestiltskin with a dark look. It's almost as if he's sulking, Belle thinks with wonder. "It isn't meant to _think_." Belle can't help her smile then, and Rumplestiltskin huffs, leans back in his chair and glowers. "My apologies if it doesn't live up to your _expectations_, my lady," he snaps, and Belle lowers her eyes for a moment, tries to smother her smile.

"I didn't mean to offend," she says carefully. "It's – it's just so strange to me, this castle. Magic." She glances up at him, is relieved when his moment of offence slides away, an amused smirk replacing the frown. She decides she dares ask a question now – perhaps more than one, for he seems to be in a companionable mood, seems to be willing to sit here and converse with her. "How does it work?" she asks. "The magic – how does the food get here? It can't come from nothing – can it?"

"No." Rumplestiltskin sips his tea, looked at her through lidded eyes. "Magic is wondrous, dearie, but you can't get something for nothing, you know." Belle nods silently, hopes he will explain further. Rumplestiltskin drums his fingers on the tabletop, considering, and Belle waits. "There is a small town," he says at last, almost reluctantly. "Some five miles away. The food comes from there."

"A town!" says Belle, and there's a hint of a scowl on his face, something foreboding that warns her to be very careful. She is forbidden from leaving the castle grounds, and although he has not said anything, although she thinks he will not _hurt _her, she knows that disobedience will not be tolerated. That much she knows, and she does not want to be afraid of her husband, so she will not disobey him. She will not give herself cause to be frightened of him.

"I'm…glad," she says after a long, tense moment. She picks her words carefully, speaks slowly to avoid being rash, and she knows he recognises her caution by the curl of his lip. "That the food comes from somewhere," she adds. "I don't quite like the idea of eating magic food, somehow."

He laughs, but it's not malicious, not mocking. It's genuine, and she likes this sound, likes that she can provoke him to genuine amusement. It's a foundation stone for something more, perhaps, and she decides to try to amuse him more often.

"Do – do you pay them?" she ventures then, cautious once more. "They can spare the food, can't they?" She's terribly afraid he'll take the questions badly, but Rumplestiltskin sips his tea and looks at her for a long moment before replying.

"They can," he says. "And yes. They are well paid, both for their food and for keeping their distance. Not that they require persuasion on that score." He grins, baring teeth. "I'm rather well known, you know."

Rumplestiltskin the deal-maker, Rumplestiltskin the trickster. Yes, he is infamous, and Belle can well imagine that the townspeople have no wish to come to the castle unless they must, unless they are summoned – although she's seen no sign, so far, that anyone ever comes here.

The people in the town, she supposes, fear him as everyone else does.

"Remember your bounds," Rumplestiltskin murmurs then, apparently fascinated by the dregs in his teacup, and Belle nods at once.

"I haven't forgotten," she says quietly, as dignified as she can manage. "I won't run, you know. I gave my word." She won't leave, she won't go past the castle walls. Even the knowledge of the town, five miles away, will not tempt her from the boundary he has set for her.

She will not risk her village, she will not risk the people she has known and loved for her whole life. Her hand in marriage for their safety; she will not cause them harm by trying to run from Rumplestiltskin. She has given her word.

"Hm." He puts his cup down, his eyes glittering strangely as he looks at her. "We'll see." Belle can't meet his eyes, although she has no reason to be nervous, no reason to be afraid of him. She has no intention of stepping past the outer wall – there is enough within to occupy her, even if loneliness is a constant nagging ache at her heart. Even if she longs to see another living creature, for more companionship than he gives her.

She focuses on what he _does_ give her. He gives her respect, and he gives her privacy – so far he has kept his word and has never come near her rooms. They eat supper together each night, and now he is sharing a pot of tea with her and letting her ask questions. It is more than some men would give their wives, and she will focus on the good and not think of the bad.

And the rain has stopped, she thinks, so she can go outside again.

"You are not what I expected," Rumplestiltskin says then, and Belle gives a startled laugh, looks up at him again. She wants to ask what he did expect, but he rises, his expression blank and it's off-putting; she has no idea what he's thinking. She finishes her tea and stands up as well, reaches across for his teacup and turns to take the cups to the sink.

"I'm going out this afternoon," he says then, and Belle nods, crosses the kitchen and puts the cups beside the sink. "I'll be away several days."

"So long," Belle murmurs, thinking of long, lonely hours with nobody to speak to, nobody to _see_. The past few days have been difficult, with only Rumplestiltskin as company and little enough of that. She is not someone who thrives in isolation, she thinks, but she must try to learn how to manage without others. She had promised Laura, after all, that she would not wither away. She must learn to handle loneliness.

"Why, my lady, will you miss me?"

He's close to her now, close behind her, and she jumps. Her hand knocks one of the cups from the work surface and it falls to the floor with a clunk. Belle inhales sharply, reaches down to it; there's a chip in the rim, but the cup is still usable. She straightens, finds his eyes fixed upon her and feels swallowed by his gaze.

"It – it's chipped," she says eventually. "You can hardly see it…" She lifts it up, holds it out to him. His gaze flickers downwards, but only for a moment.

"It's just a cup," he says, and Belle nods. "I'll be back in two days," he says, and she nods once more. "Perhaps three," he concedes, tilting his head to one side, shrugging a shoulder. "Sometimes these things can be…delicate."

Deals, Belle realises. He means deals can be delicate, he is going away to make a deal with some poor, desperate soul. Just as he had made a deal with her, six days ago – only six days, but her whole world has changed and it feels like a lifetime that she stood in her room in her father's castle and offered Rumplestiltskin anything that was hers to give.

"Do not leave the castle grounds," he tells her, and his voice is dark and full of warning, his lip is curled in a sneer and Belle ruthlessly suppresses the urge to pull away from him. "You will not like the consequences, and I shan't be here to put you together again if you try."

"I won't," Belle whispers. "I promise."

He lifts his hand, touches her mouth and Belle wonders if he wants to kiss her. She wonders if she would mind if he kissed her. She wonders many things, in this moment as his finger runs across her lower lip.

"Will you miss me?" he asks again, and he seems to find something humorous in the question, giggles and withdraws his hand. But Belle answers seriously; she thinks it is a question that must be answered so, for even if she does not understand his need to ask the question, she thinks he needs a truthful answer.

"Yes," she says honestly. She will miss him, for he is her only company and she knows she will be terribly lonely in this great castle without him. He frowns – it's clearly not the answer he was expecting, and yet Belle can give no other answer. She will miss him, even if she does not yet know him well, even if he sometimes scares her, even if she cannot hope to understand him.

She will miss him.

Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, frown deepening as he looks at her. His face is so mobile, so expressive, and it will take years for her to learn all the subtle variations of it but she knows this, knows she has once again surprised him.

She is not what he expected; Belle thinks that may be a good thing.

"Do try not to get into trouble while I'm gone," he says at last, and Belle nods her head, turns to place the chipped cup in the sink, where it cannot be further damaged. She feels him watching her for a long moment, but she does not look at him, hopes she is turned far enough away to hide the heat in her cheeks.

He looks at her in such a way, and it makes her confused. It makes her feel both desired and rejected, and she feels twisted in knots by the conflicting feelings.

And then he is gone, and Belle is left alone.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

If the castle was empty and quiet before, it is desolately so without Rumplestiltskin.

Belle tries to keep to the routine she has adopted here: she wakes, eats breakfast in the kitchen, prepares fresh bread for the day, and then goes out to weed the garden. She eats lunch, and then in the afternoon she finds a room to dust and cleans it thoroughly. In the evening she takes a tray to her room, rather than sit in the great hall without him.

She tries to keep to her routines, but she feels his absence more than she expected to, and the castle is so very quiet. It's almost as if his presence fills the building with life and power, and without him that life is gone. The castle's magic still works, but it's slow to respond, sluggish, as if lacking in energy.

The isolation means Belle misses her home more; for the first few days in Rumplestiltskin's castle she had been able to push aside the homesickness in favour of exploration and adjustment, but now she misses her father desperately. She misses the others too, but her father most of all, and the heartache is enough to make her feel thoroughly miserable.

It also means she has more time to think about Rumplestiltskin, and she finds her thoughts returning to him again and again. Kneeling in the garden weeding, or in the kitchen kneading bread – even lying in bed at night, she thinks of him. The strange man she has married, the creature that desires her and yet will not take what is his by rights as her husband.

The past few days have not been enough to even begin to learn him, but Belle has already begun to _like_ him, she realises now. He's funny when he chooses, kind and gentle when he wants to be. He can be cruel and sarcastic and seems to delight in confusing her, but he is not a beast, not a monster.

He is _not_ a monster, and Belle feels his absence keenly.

On the evening of the third day, Belle takes her work basket to the great hall, sits beside the fire and darns stockings. She does not like the great hall without Rumplestiltskin there – the spinning wheel stands unused and almost seems to mock her, to mock her confused thoughts and feelings – but this is her home now, and she wants to try to become more comfortable here.

It's not as cosy as her sitting room upstairs, but it's nice enough, even without company, and Belle drags in a rocking chair she'd found in an otherwise empty room elsewhere. She sits and darns stockings and attempts to repair the hem of a dress that's come down whilst weeding the garden.

But Belle has never liked such tasks, and it isn't long before her hands fall idle and she turns to watching the fire instead. Although as rule she isn't given to sitting without occupation, the long hours of solitude are wearing on her and she feels slow and listless.

She misses her father. She misses Laura. She thinks of Rumplestiltskin and feels twisted and knotted, unable to understand his changeable moods, the way his treatment of her alters almost from minute to minute.

She glances across to the place where he had held her, and told her what he could do if he wished. She thinks about what he'd said, about the difference between a willing wife and an unwilling one.

He is not ugly, she decides; his appearance is unusual, to say the least, but he isn't ugly, and she isn't repulsed by him. His skin is strange, and she wonders what it would feel like and blushes, even though there is no-one to see her and nobody to hear her thoughts. She does not know what men and women do in bed, not really. Laura had dropped hints, and she's seen animals mating, but she thinks he would not be unpleasant to look at, at least.

She thinks he would not hurt her. She thinks perhaps he is the second kind of man that Laura had talked about, the type of man who doesn't know how to be kind but can be taught. Rumplestiltskin is gentle when he remembers to be, and she thinks there is something of a wild creature in him, a creature that does not know kindness or caring, or has forgotten those things if he ever knew them.

Belle sighs, frowns thoughtfully. She has been determined to be his wife properly, to do her duty in this as in everything else she has ever done, but he does not make it easy for her. In a week she has hardly spent any time with him, and Belle's place here feels so very uncertain.

She hears his footsteps then, and she picks up her darning, tries to pretend she hasn't been sitting here idle, but she looks up with a smile when he enters the hall.

"You're back," she says in greeting, and Rumplestiltskin makes an elaborate bow in response. Belle can't help giggling, and she pushes her work off her lap and into the basket, rises and curtseys to him. He seems pleased with the gesture, a smile hovering at the edges of his mouth as he approaches.

She almost thinks he will take her hand and kiss it, but he doesn't, and Belle seats herself again but doesn't retrieve her work.

"Did – was your trip successful?" she asks, hesitant, and Rumplestiltskin shrugs a shoulder, wriggles his fingers through the air.

"More or less," he says. "And you, my lady?" There's a glint in his eyes now, a hint of something dangerous in his voice. "I see you didn't test the walls."

Belle tries not to be disappointed, tries not to show that she'd hoped he would begin to realise he can trust her, now he has returned and found her here. She isn't sure how successful she is, and she bends to pick up her stocking, uses it as an excuse to hide her face.

"I said I would not," she says. "And so I have not. I am still here, as you see."

He comes to stand before her, firelight licking at one side of his face and casting the other side into shadow. She doesn't look at him, concentrates on picking up her darning, even though her hands are shaking a little. It isn't fear, she thinks, or at least not quite that. Something, though, something strong enough to make her shake just a little, and she presses her lips firmly together to keep from saying anything foolish.

"An obedient wife," Rumplestiltskin says at last, and there's a note of incredulity in his voice. "Does such a thing exist?"

Belle's moment of pique disappears then, and she smiles once more. "Maybe it does." She threads her needle, sticks it into her stocking and glances up at him. "Did you want something to eat?" she asks then. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back, but I saved some supper."

"A thoughtful wife as well?" Rumplestiltskin grins then, baring teeth, and Belle can't quite move for a moment, can't move until the grin falls away and he shakes his head. "I do not require food."

Not food, but Belle suspects he requires something, suspects there's something behind that look in his eyes. For a moment her thoughts fly wildly, uncontainable, darting from possibility to possibility before she can even realise what those possibilities are. Then she lowers her head and makes a stitch in her stocking, almost blindly.

He doesn't speak for a few moments; when he does his words are slow, almost cautious, almost as if he's afraid of her reaction.

"I have something for you," he tells her, and Belle looks up in surprise. His head is tilted to one side as he observes her, his hands behind his back as if he's holding something there, and Belle feels a slow smile creep across her face.

"A present?" she says and he shrugs, says nothing. Belle sticks her needle into her stocking and drops the stocking into her work basket again, looks up at him expectantly. "Thank you," she says. "You didn't have to."

"Hm. Eyes shut, dearie," he says, grinning at her now, and Belle hesitates a moment before obeying. She hears his footsteps as he closes the distance between them, and she fleetingly thinks of how vulnerable she is, sitting here with her eyes shut. Then he places something in her lap, something soft – fabric, she feels, and she lifts a hand, runs her fingertips over the softness and texture of it.

"Oh," she breathes, and she opens her eyes, sees the dress laid out over her knees. It's beautiful; cream and blue brocade, trimmed with fur, finer than any of her own dresses except perhaps her wedding gown. "Oh, it's lovely," she says, and she traces the flowers embroidered into the fabric. "Oh, thank you!" She looks up at him and sees a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, but his grin is gone as he inclines his head.

"It gets cold here," he says. "You will not be used to it."

"Thank you," she says again, quieter now, thoughtful as she thinks of his own thoughtfulness. His caring, for there is something of caring in the way he treats her, even if he is unsure and cautious. He cares enough, at least, to think of her comfort.

She doesn't understand him, but she understands that much.

And she understands too that words are not enough to thank him with, even if he expects nothing but words of gratitude. Belle knows it's not enough, and she lifts the dress and folds it over the arm of her rocking chair, rises and steps towards him. He almost steps back, and his eyes narrow in suspicion, but Belle doesn't let herself be discouraged by his distrust.

She pauses before him, and then reaches up and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she says once more. "You're very kind."

His laugh is hoarse, and he steps away from her, lifts his hand to touch his cheek where she kissed him. "Kind," he echoes. "Hardly, my lady. Have you forgotten how you came to be here?"

Belle's cheeks burn and she bites her tongue to keep silent. She has not forgotten; she could not forget. But that does not mean he shows her no kindness, no generosity. He has shown her both those things, and she must in turn be kind to him, and try to be generous with what little she has to give.

A kiss on the cheek is so very little really, she thinks. So very little.

"Should I go upstairs?" she asks, choosing to ignore the way his hand lingers on his cheek, the way he looks at her. "I don't wish to disturb you – you must be tired."

"You don't disturb me," he says, and he takes another step backwards, lowers his hand at last. "Stay, if you like. I don't care."

Belle tries not to feel disappointed, tries not to feel rejected as she would have felt only a few days ago; she nods and smiles, returns to her chair.

"I'll stay, then," she says, and she strokes a hand over her new dress before she takes up her work again. "I've been working on the garden," she says then, and glances up to see he's turned away from her, has stepped towards the spinning wheel. "It's a mess. It doesn't look like anybody's bothered about it for years."

"Nobody has," he says, voice a little distant, a little absent. He lifts a hand to his wheel, and Belle lowers her eyes to her mending, works the needle through the stocking. "I've never bothered," he adds. "Why should I?"

Belle imagines he's grinning now, delighting in his own power, but she doesn't look up, determinedly keeps working. She's silent, waits to see if he will continue the conversation or bring it to a halt. She hopes he's inclined to speak; the past three days have been terribly, horribly silent.

"It will snow soon," he remarks at last. "Since I have no desire for a frozen wife, I trust you will refrain from attempts at gardening when that happens."

Belle smiles, nods her head. "Of course," she agrees. "I suppose it snows a lot, here. We had snow, at home, but it never lasted for long." She pauses, realises what she's said. At home. She hopes he won't comment; she's only been here a week, after all, and he can hardly expect her to feel at home here just yet.

"The snow lasts for months," Rumplestiltskin tells her. "Occasionally I've been snowed in." He turns, bares teeth in a grin, and Belle watches him. "Not that it matters to me, dearie. I travel my own way. And it won't matter to you, either. You'll be going nowhere."

She looks down again, her smile fading. Time, she reminds herself, in time trust will grow. Time will show him that she will not run and that he need not continually remind her of the limitations he has placed upon her, the restraints on her movements. He need not speak of it, need not make such pointed remarks, and in time he will learn that she will not run from him.

She will be as good a wife as she can be, now that this is her life. She never wanted marriage, and marriage to Rumplestiltskin is a fate beyond anybody's imagination, but this is her life now, and Belle is determined to do as Laura instructed and be as happy and contented as she can be.

Belle will try to be a good wife; in time, perhaps, he will realise that.

She finishes darning her stocking, rolls it up and puts the needle away in the small needle-case that had been part of Laura's wedding gift to her. She hears the spinning wheel turning; he is not spinning, she sees when she risks a glance up, merely turning the wheel and watching it. She wonders why he spins; she wonders what pleasure it holds for him.

She thinks of the rooms full of spun gold, and wonders.

"I'll say goodnight," she says, and she gets up, folds her new dress over her arm and picks up her work basket. "It's late. I'm tired."

"Of course. Goodnight, then."

Belle goes to the door and pauses for a moment, turns back to look at him. His face is in shadow, but she thinks he's watching her, she thinks he's looking back at her. Words die on her lips, wither in her mouth, and she stares at him for a heartbeat, for two, the moment stretching out impossibly long.

"Thank you for the dress," she says at last, and leaves him.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes the next morning to snow, and she spends long minutes leaning against her frost-covered window, blowing on the glass and rubbing it to clear away the thin coating of ice so she can see out. She can't clear more than a small patch, and even then there's ice on the outside of the window so all she can see is a fuzzy bright whiteness. Enough to cause a flutter of excitement, and Belle lets the curtain fall closed and hurries to dress. It's cold, and the air bites at her skin as she removes her nightgown and hurries into her undergarments, corset and petticoats.

After a moment of deliberation, Belle dons the dress Rumplestiltskin brought her when he returned yesterday evening. It fits perfectly, the sleeves hugging her arms, the skirts long and full, and Belle spends a moment wishing for a mirror before she goes to brush her hair. She has not found a mirror in the castle at all, and save for her small hand mirror brought from home, Belle is without any means to check her own appearance. Still, she can tell the dress suits her, and she smiles as she thinks of Rumplestiltskin choosing it for her. It's warm, too, warmer than her own dresses and that's something she needs today.

She plaits her hair and ties it with the golden ribbon, and then she departs her rooms in search of breakfast. The castle usually lights the kitchen fire before she wakes, so the kitchen is warm when she reaches it, and she's grateful for it. She'd filled the kettle the night before, so she swings it across to boil water for tea, and prepares breakfast for herself.

"My lady."

"Oh!" Belle jumps, presses a hand to her chest and turns to see Rumplestiltskin standing just inside the doorway. "You startled me," she says, almost scolding but taking care to keep her voice light enough that he should not take offence. He offers a faint smile, tilts his head slightly as his gaze travels over her. Something flutters in her stomach, and she fights a blush. His stares seem to have become more open since he returned from his journey, and she's not sure whether she likes it or not.

"You enjoy making me jump," she says with a laugh that's only a little forced. "Do you take such pleasure in it?" He giggles, and for once it doesn't repel her, for once it doesn't send shivers running like ice down her spine. Instead it makes her smile, and she turns back to stir the pot of porridge. "Would you like some breakfast?" she asks him over her shoulder. "I've made enough."

"I suppose you can hardly go far wrong with porridge," he remarks. "Some of your meals leave a little to be desired, dearie."

"I know I'm no cook," says Belle, and she laughs again, properly this time, laughter and lightness filling her heart suddenly. "I'll learn, though."

"The castle will provide, you know."

"Yes, but I like working," says Belle. "I will get better." She goes to fetch two bowls, ladles porridge generously into them and takes them to the table. She fetches cream and honey from the larder, and returns to find him seated at the table sniffing the porridge dubiously. She laughs again, shakes her head. "I promise I'm not trying to poison you," she says.

"Hmm." Rumplestiltskin adds cream but not honey to his pudding, stirs it in and lifts a spoonful to his mouth. He doesn't eat it though, sits there and watches as she begins her breakfast. "You," he says at last, "are in a good mood."

Belle blows on a spoonful of porridge and nods thoughtfully. "I am," she agrees. "Should I not be?"

"Nobody," says Rumplestiltskin darkly, "is ever in a good mood when I'm around."

Belle feels a sudden surge of pity for him, a deep compassion for how lonely he must be if that's true. If everyone is afraid of him – even if he intends to create such a reaction – there must be nobody he can trust, nobody he can call friend. Nobody to care.

But now she is here; now she is his wife. And she resolves now, in this moment, that she _will_ care for him. She will do her best to fill the void he has revealed by those few words. She will endeavour to always be in a good mood, to banish her fear of him. To be a friend, even if he continues to try to push her away.

"Well," she says, "I'm in a good mood. I think it's the snow." He lifts an eyebrow, begins to eat his porridge. "We never had much, in the marshlands. It's too far south."

"Snow is a nuisance," says Rumplestiltskin. "Nothing more."

"It's beautiful," Belle murmurs, but she won't argue the point, and anyway she's not sure she could explain what she means, not sure she can put into the words the child-like delight that had filled her when she looked from her bedroom window and saw the whiteness outside. There is part of her that wants to go outside and play in it, as she played as a child when the snows came. She's too old for such things, of course, but she can't deny she wants it.

The kettle gives off a shrill whistle as the water boils, and she starts to rise, to go to make tea, but Rumplestiltskin waves a hand and goes to attend to it himself. Belle subsides into her seat, eats her porridge and watches his graceful, economical movements as he prepares a pot of tea.

He uses the chipped cup, she sees, and she can't think why he does so when there are half a dozen unmarred cups in the cupboard. But he uses the cup she chipped, and she sets the curiosity aside for later. Later, when he is not with her, she can attempt to puzzle it out. For now she is determined to converse with her strange husband.

"Have you always lived here alone?" she ventures to ask, and Rumplestiltskin gives a curt nod as he settles himself opposite her once more. "It's so big," she goes on, not quite discouraged but a little wary. "Don't you – don't you get lonely?"

He says nothing; he eats his porridge, and Belle bites her lip for a moment before applying herself to her own breakfast. The silence is not uncomfortable, but Belle thinks perhaps she has asked the wrong questions, perhaps she has crossed some line. She hopes not; she is tired of silence, tired of loneliness.

Her porridge is nearly gone before he speaks again.

"Are you lonely, my lady?" he asks her, and Belle shrugs her shoulders.

"Yes," she says plainly. She sees no point in lying to him, not when he has asked the question. He flinches a little, and she cannot quite understand why. He has bestowed this loneliness upon her, and it is within his power to ease it a little. Even small things – the sharing of meals, the pleasantness of conversation – would help. Even if he is the only living thing she will ever see again, she knows she could be less lonely if only he would understand that she _wants_ to see him.

And she does want to see him, she knows. He confuses her, teases her, has scared her at times, but he is her husband and Belle wishes to know him.

"I'm not unhappy, though," she says impulsively. It's true enough, and it's worth saying it for the look of relief that shows on his face, just for a moment. She's not unhappy, and although she could hardly call herself quite _happy_, she knows she may be able to find contentment here, creating a purpose for herself in the castle as his companion. A wife in some respects, if not in others.

Rumplestiltskin drains his cup, puts it down carefully on the table. "It will snow again later," he says. "I don't advise you go outside."

"Alright," says Belle with a nod. She doesn't mind staying indoors; despite her wish to see the snow, she knows it will be far colder out there than inside, and she doesn't have much in the way of warm winter clothing.

She doesn't have much in the way of clean clothing, either, and she hesitates to ask for his help, but although she's found a laundry room, she has no idea how to launder anything. It's not something she was ever required to do, before – she's seen the maids washing clothes and linens, but she doesn't know if the water should be hot or cold, or the quantities of soap, or how to dry things so they do not crease.

"What is it?" he asks, and he sounds patient, as he sometimes does. She likes him like this, willing to do what he can for her. This is a Rumplestiltskin who cares, who answers her questions without mocking her. This is the man she sees in him sometimes, the man who seems willing to learn how to please her.

This man, she thinks, she is willing to learn to please. This man she could even…but she pushes those thoughts away and voices her question.

"I need to clean my clothes," she says quietly. "But I…I'm not sure how." She's afraid he'll laugh at her ignorance, but whilst there's a gleam of amusement in his eyes, he does not laugh, does not mock.

"The castle will do it for you," he says. "Leave your clothing in the laundry room overnight – you've found that?" She nods at once. She's not sure she likes the idea of magic cleaning her clothes, any more than she likes the idea of magic providing her meals, but she's sensible enough to know her limits – at least for now. She'd like to learn how to wash clothing, but she has nobody to learn from, so for now she will let the castle clean her things.

"Thank you," she says. She finishes her tea, rises to take the dirty dishes to the sink. She feels him watching her, but for once it doesn't make her feel self-conscious.

"The dress suits you," he says, and Belle glances back at him, brushes a hand over her skirts, feels herself blushing at the frankness of his gaze. She doesn't know what to say to the compliment, turns back to the sink but stands idle. Rumplestiltskin chuckles and Belle's cheeks heat further.

"It's a lovely dress," she mutters, and she hears him moving, the scrape of his chair on the floor as he puts it back, light footsteps as he approaches her. She turns to face him, trying to ignore the way her heart is pounding, the dryness of her mouth.

He's standing so close she could reach out and touch him, and Belle _misses_ touch. She misses the casual touches shared with Sarah, with Laura. The embraces bestowed by her father. She even misses the touches exchanged in the infirmary – a hand pressed to a forehead to check for a temperature, fingers questing over the edges of a wound, hands held in comfort.

She misses touch, and when Rumplestiltskin lifts a hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she turns her face into his touch.

"You're lovely in it," he says quietly, and pulls away. Belle is trembling and she doesn't quite know why, doesn't know why he says things like this and touches her so gently when he has no intention of doing anything further.

She doesn't understand him, and she doesn't understand her own feelings either, and it's all working together to make her feel wretched.

"Why do you say things like that?" she whispers, agonised. "Why do you touch me like that if you don't want –" She cuts herself off, horrified at revealing so much, but she can't look away from him, can't tear her eyes from his face. The blankness of his expression, the darkness of his eyes.

He says nothing and Belle feels tears welling in her eyes, a sob building in her throat. She closes her eyes to shut out the sight of him, feels sure he will be angry now, feels sure he will be cruel and sarcastic as he had been that night when she had come downstairs wrapped in a blanket and he'd scared her so badly.

He does not speak until a tear is making its way down her cheek. He lifts a hand and brushes it away, offers her a thin smile.

"You are a lovely woman," he says. "And you intrigue me."

Belle's breath hitches in a sob and she shakes her head. "I don't understand," she says. "I don't –" His fingers move from her cheek to her mouth, effectively silencing her, and she stands as still as she can, tries not to tremble.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asks her, and Belle doesn't know whether to nod or shake her head, she _doesn't know_ if she's afraid of him or not. Sometimes she is, sometimes he scares her so much, but he can be so gentle and kind, and she doesn't know which is more real. She doesn't know if the cruel sarcasm is an act, or whether the kindness is merely lulling her into a false sense of safety.

She doesn't know, and she can't answer.

He sighs and shakes his head, teeth bared in a grimace. "Perhaps it's foolish," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "I thought I would not care, but I find I do not _want_ you to be afraid of me."

Belle can say nothing; she hides her shaking hands in her skirts, in the skirts of the dress he brought her as a gift, and looks at him. She cannot tell him she is unafraid, and she feels there is no other answer that would please him.

He shakes his head once more and steps away from her. "I'll leave you to your day, my lady," he says, sounding almost weary, but his step is quick as he leaves the kitchen and Belle stands for long moments listening as his footsteps move further and further away.

He does not want her to be afraid of him, but Belle is afraid, and she can't change her feelings, not so quickly, not so soon. He has taken her from everything she knows. He has married her and yet rejects her company at night. He is cruel and vicious and she knows all the stories of him, she knows the kind of thing he does, the pleasure he takes in making his deals. She knows that most of all, for she remembers how he'd taunted her father, can hear in her mind that high-pitched giggle when she'd agreed to his deal.

She cannot be unafraid. And yet he can be pleasant company, and his offered touch is gentle. He brought her a gift of a fine dress, lets her do as she pleases within the castle grounds, asks nothing of her but occasionally her company.

Belle covers her face with her hands and takes deep breaths as she tries to push it all aside, tries to think of what she will do today. The snow will keep her inside, and the cold will keep her from many of the rooms, but movement will warm her; she goes to collect her duster and broom, and sets off to find a room to clean.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin doesn't come to supper, and Belle sits in the great hall alone and picks at her food.

Since suggesting – demanding – that she share the meal with him, he has never been absent from it except when he left the castle entirely to make whatever deal he'd made. Belle doesn't know what it means that he hasn't come now, doesn't know whether she has offended him or whether he is angry, or whether it's simply that he's involved in some work somewhere in the castle and has forgotten the time.

Regardless, he is not here, and Belle's appetite has disappeared as well. She crumbles her bread into her stew, stirs her spoon around her bowl, and tries to examine why she feels so despondent.

Is it, she asks herself, because she likes him? There is definitely something in him that means she wishes to know him better, something more than the mere fact that he is her husband. There's something there, beneath his prickly exterior, something beneath the sarcasm and the cutting remarks. Something deeply lonely.

He does not want her to be afraid of him; he told her so quite plainly. And yet Belle cannot be unafraid. He is so powerful and so fearsome and she is just one small, ordinary woman. He is the one with the power in this situation, and she's very aware of it. No, she cannot be unafraid. Not yet, at least.

She sighs, shakes her head. She chose this, she reminds herself. She chose to come here and give herself to him, and there is no going back. There can be no breaking of the deal. She must learn not to be frightened but equally she must teach him how not to frighten her. She must teach him kindness and gentleness, and that she can be trusted.

It would be easier, she thinks, if he would come to her bed. She blushes at the thought, but she thinks it would be easier if he learned how to be gentle there, learned that she wants that part of marriage. She hadn't expected to, but she has discovered, in his rejection of her, that without it she does not feel like she is truly his wife.

And he is not ugly; he is not disfigured. His skin is oddly-coloured, his hands perhaps a little rougher than she might expect in another man, but he is not ugly. He is gentle when he touches her, and she thinks he would be gentle in bed also. She knows he wants it – the way he looks at her, the way he _touches_ her, tell her that he wants it. But he does not want an unwilling wife, so Belle knows it is up to her to show him she is not unwilling. And she is not unwilling, not quite. There's part of it bound up with her duty, but there's another side to it as well.

The way he touches her, the way her skin feels when his fingers brush across her cheek or her mouth. The way something flutters in her belly. Belle is not unwilling; it would not be as he said, that night when he'd scared her so badly. He would not have to enchant her to make the deed bearable.

She cannot do it if she has any doubts, she knows. If she shows her fear, her nerves, he will retreat once more. She must be sure, and must act sure, and perhaps there are smaller ways to start. Perhaps Belle can kiss his cheek again, or even his mouth; she's seen men and women kissing, knows it to be enjoyable. Perhaps she can touch him more – casual touches to grow used to it. Perhaps these things would ease them both into the idea.

Her food is growing cold but Belle isn't hungry; she puts her bowl back onto the tray she'd used to bring supper up, rises and turns to leave the great hall. There's no point sitting here any longer when he's clearly not going to come, and she wants to fetch her clothing and take it to the laundry room before it grows too late.

Rumplestiltskin pushes the door open just as she reaches it, and she stops still, bites her lip. He doesn't meet her eyes, gestures a hand towards the tray.

"I'm late," he says. "You're leaving?" He frowns then, fierce and dark. "You haven't eaten," he says, and Belle shrugs, lowers her gaze to the bowls of stew. She feels she's blushing again, although he can hardly know the turn of her thoughts.

"I wasn't hungry," she murmurs. Rumplestiltskin makes a sound deep in his throat, takes the tray from her and pushes past her to set it on the table. Belle turns and watches, but doesn't venture closer. "It's cold," she tells him, and Rumplestiltskin glances at her briefly and snaps his fingers. Steam starts rising from the bowls, and Belle lowers her gaze, presses her lips together and nods. Cold food is no problem for one who wields magic so easily.

"Come," he says, an order hidden beneath his soft tone, and Belle returns to the table, takes her seat once more close to the head of the table. He sits there, leans back in his chair and watches as she takes the bowls from the tray and reaches to put his before him. He accepts it with a nod, and Belle takes her own bowl, lifts a spoonful of stew with some reluctance. She doesn't want to eat, but she's sure he won't be happy if she doesn't.

He does not speak for long minutes, and Belle keeps her eyes lowered, forces mouthfuls of stew down.

"Don't force yourself, dearie," Rumplestiltskin says at last, an unpleasant note in his voice, sour and nasty. "If my presence is that distasteful, please feel free to leave." His smile is all glittering malice when Belle glances up at him, and she almost shivers. "Am I so unpleasant to look at?" he asks, and Belle shakes her head.

"Not at all," she murmurs. "I'm just…not hungry." It's not enough – his smile twists into a snarl – and Belle tries to smile. "Truly," she says softly. "You're not unpleasant to look at. I think I'm just tired." He doesn't believe her, and Belle can't think of anything she could possibly say to convince him.

He thinks himself ugly, distasteful, and perhaps that's another reason why he has not...forced his attentions upon her. Perhaps he thinks she's unwilling because he thinks himself a monster. He's called himself that, monster and beast, and although she can see there's something twisted in him, she can't call him a monster. He's capable of too much kindness for that.

"I was dusting the rooms off the long corridor upstairs," she tells him then, trying to change the subject. "You should put dust sheets in there, you know. The rooms are filled with…" She hesitates, unsure for a moment, but he gestures for her to continue. "Well, it looks like a lot of junk, to me," she has to admit, and she glances sidelong at him as she waits for his reaction. He giggles, but doesn't seem offended, and Belle feels a little encouraged. "Where does it all come from?" she asks. "There's furniture and ornaments and tools – I found a scythe, in one of the rooms. Why on earth do you need so many things?"

Rumplestiltskin takes a few moments to respond, and Belle can feel her heart sink. She leans back in her chair, lowers her gaze, tries to accept that this evening is not going to be as pleasant as some of their shared meals. She can accept that, she thinks, so long as he does not become sarcastic as he sometimes does. She is too wearied for that tonight, too fatigued by her own emotions as well as his changeable moods.

"Some things were here when I took possession of the castle," he tells her, and Belle looks up at him again. "Some I've acquired since." He taps on the table with his fingers, an irregular rhythm. "You never know what will come in useful," he says, voice sliding high, and he giggles, pleased with himself or his deals or perhaps something else entirely. Belle gives an uncertain smile, and his tapping ceases. "Nothing that can harm you," he says, almost an assurance. "Don't fret, dearie, all the dangerous things are safely locked away."

"I'm not worried," says Belle. "Except about the dust." She smiles, tries to show she's teasing, and he seems to understand. He flashes a grin at her, and takes up his spoon and finally begins to eat his stew. Belle watches him for a moment, studies his face to see if she can tell what he thinks of her cooking effort, but he gives nothing away and she falls to her own supper, her appetite creeping back by degrees now.

"You don't have to clean, you know," he tells her. "You're not a maid, dearie." Belle nods but doesn't say anything; she is not a maid, but he has no purpose for her here. There are no servants to oversee, no villagers to tend and to hear. She is his lady, but she is far from the lady of the castle, for that position requires others to support it and to support in return. She cannot be what she has been raised and trained to be, so she has tried – is trying – to carve out a new place for herself.

She may as well tackle the dust as anything else, and with the garden taken from her by the snow, cleaning seems as good an occupation as any other.

"What would you have me do?" she asks quietly. "What did you think I would do, when you brought me here?"

"I…do not know." Rumplestiltskin sounds baffled, and he's frowning into his stew, eyebrows drawn together and mouth pressed into a thin line, but he's not frowning at her so Belle isn't too concerned. "I'm not overly familiar with what noble ladies do with their time." He leans back in his chair, fingers fluttering through the air, and Belle lifts a spoonful of stew to her mouth, blows to cool it a little. "What did you do?" he demands abruptly. "In your father's castle."

"All sorts of things," says Belle, a little surprised by the question. He hasn't shown any interest in her life before – or if he's been curious, he's never asked her anything. "I worked in the infirmary a great deal, and I supervised the household. The accounts and stores, things like that." She doesn't like thinking about the things she'd done, the pattern of her life before she came here, because to think of those things leads to homesickness and heartache.

"And so here you fill your time with…_dusting_," he says with a sneer, and Belle nods. He says nothing further, and she finishes her stew, somewhat surprised that she's managed it all. He eats his own supper, and his silence seems thoughtful somehow.

He finishes and Belle rises, puts the bowls together on the tray and hesitates for a moment. She could go without another word – they've shared enough suppers for her to know he will not keep her beyond the meal, and she thinks now he believes she cannot bear his company. She thinks he believes himself so repulsive that he cannot comprehend that she is not merely desperate for _any_ company. She is desperate, of course, she is so terribly lonely in this great castle. She's so unaccustomed to being alone, and the rare moments spent with him are a light in her life.

But there's more than that; he is her husband, and she desires to know him further. She wants to learn how to slip beneath the prickly outer layers to find the softness, the gentleness, that she knows is there.

So she puts the tray down and goes to the head of the table, leans against it and looks down at him. She bites her lip for a moment as he slouches in his chair and lifts his face to hers. He's startled by it, discomfited by her closeness; he tries to hide it, but he isn't fast enough, and the widening of his eyes and the fluttering of his fingers reveal to her what he seems to want to conceal.

"Your presence is not distasteful to me," she says slowly, carefully. He sniffs, opens his mouth to speak, but Belle reaches out and takes his hand and he inhales sharply. "It's not," she insists. "_You're_ not."

Rumplestiltskin tugs his hand from hers, doesn't meet her gaze. "Pretty lies, my lady," he murmurs. "But unnecessary."

"I'm not lying," Belle says, but she knows he doesn't believe her. Perhaps he can't believe her, at least not yet, no more than he can trust her yet. She sighs, shrugs her shoulders. "I like our meals together," she says. "Why do you think nobody could possibly like you?"

He pushes his chair away from the table, rises and turns his back on her. "Nobody does like me, dearie," he tells her sourly. "They fear me. And they're right to." He turns back and he's cloaked himself in power and mischief, is wholly Rumplestiltskin the trickster, the deal-maker.

This is the being she is afraid of; this is not the gentle man she sees sometimes. Belle controls herself, refuses to shudder, but she swallows hard as he dances close to her.

"And you're afraid of me, just like everyone else," he says, almost a taunt, "so how could you possibly _like_ me? Like the beast who's trapped you in his castle? Stranger things have happened, dearie, but not often."

"Don't belittle my choice," says Belle, anger rising in response to his taunt, and she pushes off the table, straightens and stands tall. "I _chose_ to come here, sir. I chose it. You can't trap the willing." Rumplestiltskin falls back a pace, wheels around to face away from her once more, and Belle swallows her anger, forces down her irritation. She doesn't speak again until she's sure she's calm; he stands still and silent, still but for the way his chest heaves with each breath.

He does not want to think of her as willing, she thinks as she looks at him now. It's easier for him, somehow, if he can continue to think of himself as the beast who has locked her up here in his home. But he is not a beast, and whilst she is caged, she means what she said. She chose to be here, and she will not allow him to belittle her choice.

She chose to be here, to save her people. There is no greater purpose for her than that.

Belle steps to his side, hesitates briefly and then lifts a hand to his shoulder; he jumps a little, turns his head towards her, and Belle tries to smile.

"I chose to come here," she says quietly. "I made the deal, and I won't go back on my word. Please don't say things like that. You're not a beast."

He huffs a laugh, but there's no amusement in his face as he lifts his eyes to meet her gaze.

"Oh no?" he says. "I've done things that would give you nightmares, my lady."

Belle doesn't doubt it; she's heard the stories. And yet somehow it doesn't seem to matter, not here. Not now.

"I'm not prone to nightmares," she says, and this time when he laughs it's more real, more genuine, and there's an amused twist to his mouth. Her smile widens, and she slips her hand from his shoulder, sure he won't run from her now. "I _do_ like our meals together," she says, coaxing him, tilting her head a little as he looks at her. "I – I think I could like _you_, if…if you give me time."

"Time," he murmurs, and turns to face her fully. He lifts a hand to touch her, but seems to think better of it, and Belle's not sure whether she's relieved he doesn't touch, or disappointed. "Time," he repeats. "Then time you shall have, my lady." He bows, a funny little bow that makes her giggle, and she curtseys to him, sweeps her skirts out and bends low.

"Perhaps you'll allow me time, as well," he says when she's straightened. "I am…unused to company."

Belle nods gravely and suppresses a smile. She knows that much, even if she doesn't know whether he is alone through choice or necessity.

"Of course," she says. "We – we will give each other time." She hesitates for a moment, and then she darts forward, lifts her face to press a kiss to his cheek. Rumplestiltskin stands still, a stone statue beneath her touch, and Belle retreats and turns to hide her blush. "I'd better take this tray down," she says, and she hurries to pick up the tray. "Goodnight, Rumplestiltskin," she says without turning back to look at him, without glancing to see how he is looking at her.

"Goodnight, my lady," he murmurs, and Belle leaves him alone.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle is sick of the snow within two days. Rumplestiltskin laughs and tells her the snow will probably last until spring, and Belle knows she'll have to get used to it, but the yard has become icy and the castle is cold. She wakes in the morning and doesn't want to leave the warmth of her bed, and most of her clothing is inadequate to keep her warm during the day.

She tries to combat the cold and the tedium with continuing her self-imposed task of cleaning the castle, but even that is beginning to grow dull and repetitive. One room is much like another, and even the contents vary little. She occasionally finds something that makes her exclaim in surprise, something odd that doesn't seem to belong, but then there are rooms full of nothing but chairs, or tables, or spools of golden thread, rooms of no great interest but a great deal of repetitive cleaning.

At least Rumplestiltskin has been pleasant, she reflects as she sits in her sitting room and tries to remember the few knitting lessons she'd been given as a child. She's found wool and needles in one of the upstairs rooms, and she's decided to attempt a scarf, the simplest of articles, that might allow her to go for a short, brisk walk outside. She detests being cooped up indoors, but she knows she'll get cold far too quickly if she goes out without adequate clothing.

She was never an attentive child in her knitting lessons, she thinks ruefully as she drops yet another stitch. She wishes now she had paid attention, but she's managing after a fashion, and her thoughts turn again to Rumplestiltskin.

Since that evening when she'd made it plain to him that she likes his company, he has sought her out a little more. They have breakfast together now, a cosy meal in the kitchen, and tea in the afternoon as well as supper. Sometimes he's talkative and sometimes taciturn, but he seems to be taking great care not to be impatient or cutting in his remarks, and Belle appreciates it.

In turn she is trying to be gentle and kind, to respond with a smile to the things that please her and to hide away any disappointment or sting from the things that hurt. It isn't always easy, and she knows she doesn't always succeed, but it is progress, she thinks. It's more than she hoped for, when she first arrived and he was so cold, so distant.

She drops another stitch and sighs in irritation. She longs for someone to teach her the things she is discovering she needs to know, things her education has lacked, but there is nobody to ask. She must make do.

There's a knock at her door, and Belle is so startled she drops her knitting, the needles slipping out of her fingers; one drops to the floor, and Belle reaches to recover it, bites her lip for a moment as she looks towards the door.

Rumplestiltskin has never come to her rooms, not since that first night. She has his promise – he will not enter unless she invites him – and for a moment she's torn. These rooms have become her sanctuary, a place where she need not guard her every word and action for fear of his reaction, and yet he has never come to her like this before. She does not want to turn him away, not when he has made the approach.

She licks her lips, calls for him to come in, and the door swings open. Rumplestiltskin comes in only a step, and he looks oddly hesitant; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and his hands flutter through the air. He glances around, and Belle sits a little straighter in her chair, looks around self-consciously, tries to see her room as he must see it. It's neat and tidy, everything in its rightful place, but she supposes it's quite different from the rest of the castle. It's lived-in, cosy, nothing like the cold grandeur of some of the rooms.

She wonders, briefly, what his own rooms are like. He must sleep, although he always seems to be awake if she ventures forth earlier or later than usual. Then she banishes the thought and looks back at him.

"Is everything alright?" she asks, taking care to keep her voice soft and pleasant. She feels unsettled by his presence here, even though he seems determined to stay on the threshold, to keep his word and not enter her rooms uninvited. "I'm not late for tea, am I?"

"No," he says, and he frowns a little as his gaze wanders to the work in her lap. "What is _that_ supposed to be?" he asks, and he sounds almost disgusted, but Belle's not sure whether it's at her occupation or the quality of her work.

"I'm trying to make a scarf," she says, choosing to suppose it's the scarf that has not met with his favour. "I'm getting a little stir-crazy," she says with a laugh. "I want to go outside, but I've hardly anything that's warm enough."

"Ah." He takes another step into the room, slow and cautious, and Belle watches him. "Yes," he says. "I see. But I'm not sure that's fit for more than keeping mice warm, dearie." Belle laughs, looks down at the knitting and pokes a finger ruefully through a hole.

"I know," she says. "But don't people say that practice makes perfect?"

"I suppose." He sounds dubious, but says nothing further. Belle waits, can feel herself growing more and more tense as each moment passes. She wishes he'd say why he's here, say what he wants. It's surprisingly uncomfortable, having him here in the rooms he's given her as her own. She can't – won't – ask him to leave, but she wishes he would speak.

She wonders, suddenly, if he's grown lonely. If he's sought her out here because he has searched her out elsewhere and not found her. If he wants her company as much as she wants his.

There's another chair beside the fire, opposite her own. Belle seizes her courage and gestures towards it.

"Won't you sit?" she asks, as gentle and graceful as she can manage. Rumplestiltskin hesitates, and Belle waits. She sometimes thinks he's a little like a wild animal, wary of any offered friendship. She doesn't imagine she can possibly _tame_ him, but there's a little of taming in the way she must teach him that she means no harm, she knows.

At last he comes closer, lowers himself carefully into the chair, and Belle picks up her knitting again. She feels she ought to attempt to make conversation, but it's hard when he makes no effort, hard when he seems in one of his taciturn moods.

It's hard, and she can't summon words. She keeps her eyes lowered to her work and hopes he'll say something.

"Do you miss your father?" he asks after a while, and Belle glances up, finds him watching her intently. She hesitates for a moment, not sure why he's asking, but at last she nods.

"Of course," she says. "He was my only family." Both her parents had been only children, and she'd never known her grandparents. There is a distant cousin, she thinks, but she's never met him and cannot think if she's ever even heard his name.

"Your mother?"

There's a lump in Belle's throat, unexpected tears pricking at her eyes. She presses her lips firmly together until she can control herself; he watches, the firelight making his eyes seem to glitter.

"She died," Belle manages at last. "A long time ago." She lowers her gaze, knows she can't bear to look at him if he's going to be cruel about it. Her mother's memory is more precious to her than anything else, and she knows she will not be able to bear it if he mocks her with it.

"I'm…sorry," he says, and she looks up, startled. She can't read him, his expression almost carefully blank. "I did not mean to touch upon bad memories," he adds, and Belle nods slowly. He means it; he is truly sorry, and she hesitates for a moment before speaking again.

"It was childbirth sickness," she says. "My new little sister died as well." She can still remember the infant, who survived only a few hours after her birth. Small and pale and sickly, the midwife had said she was born too soon and would be a lifelong invalid if by chance she did survive. But she'd died quickly, and Belle's mother had died in the days that followed.

She can remember sitting by her mother's bedside watching as the life left her. It was the first time Belle had seen death properly. She'd known people who had died, because that is the way of life, but she had never seen anybody die, had never realised how cold and empty the body looked once the life had fled.

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

"Ah." Rumplestiltskin puts his hands together, fingertip to fingertip, and he leans back in his chair, regards her steadily. "Old enough to miss her, I suppose."

"Quite old enough," says Belle, a little sharper than she intended, and there's a flash of a smirk as he looks at her. She exhales, shakes her head. " Quite old enough," she repeats, softer. "She was very dear to me. And my father, of course."

"Of course." There's something faintly sarcastic in his tone, and Belle presses her lips together, lowers her head to concentrate on her knitting. He says nothing more, and the silence begins to creep across the room uncomfortably. The fire crackles; the wind outside whistles against the windows.

She wonders once more why he has come, if he has no desire for conversation.

Finally he clears his throat and rises, and Belle lets her hands fall still, looks up at him.

"I will see you have a suitable wardrobe," he tells her. "The snows will last until spring, and you must…be dressed adequately." He gestures a hand towards her, perhaps the most awkward movement she's ever seen him make.

"Thank you," she says hesitantly. "But you don't have to."

"You are my wife." There's dignity in the way he says it, and perhaps a little pride, and Belle inhales sharply. He's never referred to her this way before, never truly acknowledged the relationship between them. He calls her _dearie_ and _my lady_, but never her name and never his wife.

"Yes," she says at last, when it becomes clear he's waiting for an answer.

"You are," he says, "my responsibility. How would it look if I were to let you freeze to death?"

"Who would know?" Belle asks, and it's thoughtless, the words tumbling from her mouth before she can think of them, and she cringes from what she's sure will be a cutting reaction. But Rumplestiltskin giggles, clasps his hands together and grins down at her.

"Indeed," he says. "However. The point stands." He does not step closer to her, but seems to loom over her nonetheless, and Belle presses backwards against her chair, bites her lip a little as she looks up at him. "You'll have your wardrobe," he tells her.

"Thank you," Belle murmurs. She's not sure how to express her gratitude, for a proper winter wardrobe will mean she can go out again, at least for short walks, at least when the snow ceases for a while. He must have seen how she chafes at being stuck indoors, and it's thoughtful of him, to think of a solution for it.

He is thoughtful, when he chooses; and she's not sure how she can properly thank him.

He turns to leave, and she thinks he intends to go without a further word; she springs up, letting her knitting fall, heedless of the stitches she's dropped by doing so.

"Wait," she says. "Please –" Rumplestiltskin turns back and Belle almost stumbles into him in his haste. He steadies her, a hand at her elbow and another fitting almost naturally at her waist, and for a moment Belle can't breathe.

"Yes, my lady?" he says softly, and Belle looks up at him, sees something of amusement lurking around his mouth and his eyes. She does not like it, the idea that he's amused at her discomfort. Or perhaps not quite discomfort, but something. Something she never felt before she came here, something new and strange and a little bit frightening.

Something new, and he knows she feels it, and he's amused by it. She doesn't like that, the idea that her naivety is a cause for amusement. He is ancient and knowing and powerful, and she's only a foolish young girl, but she wishes he would not always do things to remind her how much he knows and how very little she has experienced.

"I – thank you," she says breathlessly. He looks a little bemused then, the amusement fading into curiosity as he regards her. Belle's heart aches for him suddenly, for he has no idea how to take gratitude that's genuinely meant. She thinks of all the people who must be grateful to him at first, when he comes to offer deals that solve their problems, and of how their gratitude must turn to hate when they realise the steepness of his prices.

She does not hate him. She is not even bitter about her fate here, she realises. She's not _happy_, but neither is she unhappy. She is lonely and often scared but she is not discontented here as she might have been with another man.

"…you are my wife," he says at last. "You've spoken of duty before, my lady. Is it not my duty to provide for you?"

"I suppose so," says Belle softly. "But I thank you for it nonetheless." And then she lifts her face and carefully, gently, presses her lips to his. Just for a moment, long enough for her to gain a brief sensation of his mouth against hers, and then she pulls away, ducks her head to hide her flushed cheeks.

"I'll come down soon," she mumbles. "For tea."

"Yes," he says, and he's stunned, his voice is soft and quiet and _stunned_. She's surprised him with her action. She's surprised herself. "Tea. I'll…be in the great hall."

And then he goes, and Belle is left standing in her sitting room, wondering how she summoned the courage to kiss him; wondering what she feels about it.

She lifts a hand and touches her lips. She thinks she should feel different, somehow. She has never kissed a man like that before. Gaston had kissed her cheek, once or twice, and had kissed her hand when they met, as men do for noble women. Her father has kissed her cheek and forehead, and she's kissed his cheek, but there has never been anybody to kiss on the mouth.

Of course there hasn't, for she hasn't ever been married before.

Belle goes back to her chair and tries not to think too hard about Rumplestiltskin.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

The promised wardrobe duly arrives; Belle wakes two days later to find a second clothes press crowding into her bedroom, filled with warm dresses and undergarments, thick shawls and cloaks, and several pairs of mittens. There are a pair of leather boots as well, thicker than her own, suitable for walking in the snow, and Belle hugs them to her chest, thoroughly delighted with his gift.

Belle doesn't spare more than a thought for how he has acquired these things and placed them in her room, every article the right size for her. She assumes it has all been brought here by magic, and pushes away any suggestion of discomfort at the idea that he can clothe her so easily. There are certain things, Belle has discovered, that it's better not to think about.

She dresses herself in her new garments, linen shift and drawers, woollen petticoats and a thick woollen gown. She puts on stockings and the new leather boots, and marvels that the boots aren't stiff as she expected. The leather is soft, almost worn-in, and she knows they'll be comfortable to wear outside. A shawl, folded into a triangle and the ends wrapped over her chest and knotted at her back, and then a cloak in rich brocaded silk, and soft mittens of rabbit skin.

She doesn't bother with breakfast; she runs eagerly down through the castle, opens the kitchen door wide, and embarks upon a walk. It's snowed again overnight, and her footsteps crunch in it, the only sound in a world muffled by a blanket of snow. She can't follow the path, but the trees provide landmarks, and Belle sets off across the lawn, aimless but for her desire to be _outside_.

It's cold, bitterly so, but Belle doesn't mind, and she soon becomes warm in her layers as she tramps through the snow happily, each step making her sink down so the snow comes over her ankles. She leaves deep tracks behind her, and she pauses at the end of the lawn, turns to look at the trail she's left in the snow, to look up at the castle, all grey stone and white snow drifted over the roofs. It looks strangely beautiful; not the way she might expect a castle called Dark to look. A dark castle, she thinks, should be built of dark brick and look ominous and foreboding.

Under its snowy blanket, the Dark Castle looks peaceful. Beautiful.

Belle moves onwards, through the orchard which seems transformed by snow and ice, and onwards still further. She passes through a garden populated with rose plants, down an avenue of trees that lines what she thinks is a driveway.

When she reaches the outer wall, she stands still and looks at the great gates that rise up before her and bar the way. There's no visible lock on the gates, but she isn't fool enough to think she could open the gate, even if the snow wasn't piled in high drifts all around.

She hadn't intended to come here today, and suddenly the wind feels colder, the wail it makes as it buffets her is more eerie. Rumplestiltskin warned her not to try to breach the walls, and Belle has given her word. She won't try. But she wishes she hadn't walked in this direction.

She turns to leave, to head back to the castle. It's growing colder and the sky is ominously dark; she thinks it's going to snow again, or perhaps it will rain. Either way she knows she should go back inside, spread her cloak to dry and warm herself by the fire. She's hungry now as well, rueing the fact that she missed breakfast in her haste to go for a walk.

"Mistress."

Belle spins back around to look at the gates and manages to trip over her own feet. She falls flat in the snow, face buried in it and hands landing awkwardly. She wrenches one wrist badly, and when she rolls over and tries to move it, the pain is considerable. It takes a moment of deep breathing for her to gather herself together enough to get up and look once more at the gates, and the person who had spoken to her.

There's a woman standing on the other side of the gates; an old woman, leaning on a stick, a satchel slung across her chest. Her grin is all amusement, but her eyes are narrowed and there's something of curiosity, of speculation, hidden behind the outward expression.

"My apologies, mistress," she says. "It was not my intention to startle you."

"It's – it's alright," says Belle. She's almost breathless, achingly uncertain. She thinks that when Rumplestiltskin forbade her to leave the castle grounds, he surely meant to keep her from speaking with anyone. He's mentioned, too, that the townspeople are well-paid to keep their distance from his abode. There's guilt fluttering in her stomach, and her mouth is dry as she looks at the old woman. "Did – have you come to see Rumplestiltskin?" she asks hesitantly. "Shall I fetch him for you?"

The woman gives a snort, shakes her head. "Bless you, child, no," she says. "I came to see you."

Belle bites her lip, contemplates that for a moment. She shakes her skirts free of snow and takes a step towards the gate; the woman stands on the other side and watches her, the wrinkles of her face easing into a grin.

"I didn't know anybody knew I was here," Belle says at last, cautious. She glances over her shoulder, back towards the castle; the woman chuckles, and Belle feels her cheeks heating despite the cold.

"I knew," the woman tells her. "I knew when you arrived." She jerks her head towards the castle, grins a toothy grin. "He'd rather I didn't, but there's little escapes my notice around here."

"I…" Belle hesitates, cradles her injured hand against her chest. "I'm sorry," she says at last. "I'm really not sure I should be speaking to you."

"Tight leash, hm?" The woman's grin fades, and she nods. "Fair enough. I'm sure you've no wish to gain his displeasure. Do you need aught, mistress? I can find most things if you've a need." She drops her gaze, tilts her head and she's amused again, but Belle doesn't know why. "You're not with child yet; are you preventing it?"

"I – _no!_" Belle gasps, horrified by the suggestion. She takes a step backwards, and would have stumbled again but for the hands that are suddenly present to support her. Rumplestiltskin, a steady presence at her back, more reassuring than she ever thought he could be.

"I'm sure you've a reason for being here, Mistress Edith," he says, and his voice is low and dangerous, sending shivers down her spine. "I'm equally sure you'll be leaving now, hm?"

Belle expects the woman – Edith – to turn and flee in terror before him, and it's clear Rumplestiltskin intends to frighten her. But Edith throws her head back and laughs long and heartily, and that scares Belle, this casual disregard for Rumplestiltskin's warning, and she leans back against him, feels his arm coming around her shoulders and _welcomes_ it.

Finally Edith ceases laughing, but there's mirth on her face, written into the lines and wrinkles that age has given her. Rumplestiltskin's grip on Belle is tight, and she feels the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, a counterpoint to the cold wind and the ache in her wrist.

"I'll go," Edith tells him, "for now. Bide well, Mistress Belle." She turns and makes her way off down a path she must know well, for it's hidden by the snow. Belle stands, Rumplestiltskin just behind her, and watches the old woman until she disappears among the snow and the trees.

"Who is she?" Belle asks then, and her voice is soft and small, almost lost in the wind. But Rumplestiltskin hears; he drops his arm from her shoulders and gently turns her to face him. He scrutinises her then, his expression grim and his eyes dark, and Belle looks up at him and tries not to feel guilty. She has nothing to feel guilty for, she thinks, because she had not intended to come to the gates, had not intended to flee, and it is not her fault that the woman – Edith – had been here and spoken to her when she came.

"She lives in the town," Rumplestiltskin says at last. "A hedge witch, of sorts. She has some small power. Mostly she acts as midwife." Belle nods, and something flashes across his expression, something dangerous. "What did she say to you?" he demands, and Belle lowers her eyes, can't quite bear to look at him.

"Very little," she says. "She apologised for startling me. She said – she said she'd come to see me." She glances up, just for a moment, but can't decipher his expression. She doesn't want to speak of the other thing Edith had said, the suggestion that Belle is using herbs or magic or anything else to prevent a pregnancy. The very idea of it is repugnant to her; although she's never wanted the kind of marriage her birth has destined for her, she is not opposed to the idea of children.

She's not even opposed to the idea of Rumplestiltskin's children, she realises with surprise. And it will happen, if he ever lies with her – if he chooses to exercise his right, or she invites him to her bed. Children will come, if they share a bed, and for a moment she imagines what they might look like. She imagines a baby with his mottled grey skin and her own eyes, and she can't breathe for a moment.

"I didn't think anyone knew I was here," she ventures at last, when he remains silent. "I didn't come here on purpose – truly, I was just walking."

He doesn't answer, but he reaches out and takes her injured wrist, frowns deeply as he tugs her mitten off and inspects her hand.

"You're injured," he says. "Hold very still, dearie." Belle nods obediently, remains as still as she can, and Rumplestiltskin cradles her hand in his. A curious sensation creeps over her, prickly heat in her hand and wrist, and Belle stares in amazement as purple smoke gusts into existence from nothingness, concealing her hand from view for a moment and then blowing away with the wind. The heat remains a moment longer, spreading up her arm, as if she's plunged her hand into a bucket of hot water.

Rumplestiltskin releases her, and Belle carefully rotates her wrist; the pain is gone, and she looks up at him, eyes wide. He's smug, she sees; his mouth is curved into a smile, his eyes sparkle with mischief, and he rocks back on his heels, all gleeful satisfaction. Belle doesn't like him like this, Rumplestiltskin the trickster, but she bites back her distaste and thanks him.

"A trifle," he says, shrugging his shoulders in dismissal. Belle marvels at him, at the power he must possess that healing a sprained wrist seems a trifle, but she says nothing, and when he offers his arm with a bow, she takes it. She's grown cold, standing here, and she wants nothing more than to warm herself by the kitchen fire with a cup of tea and her breakfast.

"May I ask something?" she says as they walk back, following the path she had trodden earlier, and Rumplestiltskin glances at her, lifts an eyebrow. "That woman – Edith – why isn't she afraid of you?"

He huffs a laugh, but there's no mirth in it. It's dark, full of something dangerous, and Belle bites her lip, wishes she hadn't asked.

"Edith is scared of little," he says. "And unfortunately she has her uses." He bares teeth in a malicious grin as he looks at her. "Why, dearie? Are you so afraid of me that you assume everyone else must be?"

"No," says Belle quietly, with dignity. She is afraid, of course, but there is something beneath the fear, something that makes her hope she will not always be afraid of him. Besides, although he can be cruel, although he is powerful beyond measure, he has never lifted a finger to harm her, as he so easily might. On the contrary, he has prevented her from injuring herself on several occasions, and he's just healed a wrist that might have taken some days to heal without his magic.

She is afraid of him, but that isn't why she asked the question. Edith displayed more than a lack of fear, her words and actions spoke of an almost casual disregard for Rumplestiltskin, for his power and his intentions, and that has startled her greatly. She has known of Rumplestiltskin since her earliest days – tales of him are told to frighten children into good behaviour, and the stories only grew darker as Belle aged – and she has never known _anybody_ to laugh at him or to mock him in the way Edith seemed to do.

People are afraid of Rumplestiltskin, and with good reason, and that's why Belle can't understand the strange old woman who stood at the gates of his castle and laughed at him.

But she can't explain any of that to him, so she remains silent as he escorts her back to the castle, his arm a welcome support now as she tires. It's difficult, walking in such deep snow, and her hands and feet are growing painfully cold, the hem of her skirts and her cloak grown wet from dragging through the snow as she goes.

The kettle is boiling when they reach the kitchen, whistling merrily, and Belle pulls off her mittens, discards her cloak over the back of a chair, and goes to pour water into the waiting tea pot. She leaves it to brew and takes off her shawl, leaves it with the mittens on the table and puts the cloak to dry beside the fire.

There's a pot of porridge cooking gently as well, and for once Belle doesn't mind the use of magic, for she's hungry and cold and a little too impatient for her breakfast to like the idea of waiting while she prepares it.

Rumplestiltskin removes his coat as well, the heavy dragon-skin coat that had been his only protection against the cold, and she wonders if he feels the cold as she does, wonders if he's human enough to feel it. He does not seem cold; he sits down at the table and watches as Belle moves around the kitchen collecting cups, bowls and spoons. She assumes he'll share breakfast with her, or tea at the very least, but is still surprisingly pleased when, once the pot of porridge is on the table, he helps himself and then serves for her as well.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and he nods in acknowledgement.

"She disturbed you," he says, and Belle shrugs awkwardly as she adds a generous helping of honey to her porridge. Rumplestiltskin leans back in his chair, observes her intently, and Belle tries not to let her nervousness show. Yes, Edith has disturbed her, but she doesn't want Rumplestiltskin to think about it. She doesn't want him to _do_ anything about it. "Don't go near the gates again," Rumplestiltskin tells her at length.

"I wasn't trying to go there," Belle says, needing to explain herself, needing him to understand that she hadn't been trying to flee. "I just…walked. It was so nice to be outside." She smiles, tries to coax him into a better mood by changing the subject. "My new clothes are lovely," she says, and that elicits a flicker of a smile – just a brief, pleased look, but she thinks it serves as distraction enough.

"You were warm enough?" he asks, and Belle nods. "Good. I'm…glad." He says nothing further, and Belle applies herself to her breakfast and hopes he won't discuss Edith further. She feels she needs time to think over the strange meeting with the strange woman, and she doesn't want to upset him by saying so.

But Rumplestiltskin says nothing more, and they eat their breakfast in silence.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle sighs as she wanders rather listlessly down a long corridor. She's still unsettled by what happened before breakfast, by meeting that strange woman, and she can't work out why and can't shake it off. It's been nagging at her all day, Edith's laugh echoing in her ears, and she can't settle to anything. She's cleaned one room thoroughly, dusted all the furniture and ornaments and oddments and swept the floor as much as she could, but when she'd gone to the next room she'd just stood in the doorway. Dissatisfied with cleaning, too restless to stay still for long, she'd left her cleaning supplies outside the room and begun to drift through the castle without a purpose.

The suggestion that Belle might be doing something to prevent pregnancy has rattled her, she can admit to herself. She knows such things happen, of course; there are things a woman can do to prevent an unwanted pregnancy, or to destroy the beginnings of life once it has taken seed in her body. But Belle has never dreamed of using such things. The thought has never even occurred to her.

She is a noble lady, after all, and although she has hated her fate for years, she has been raised and trained for a purpose. To take care of her husband's estate and household; to lie in his bed and be his faithful companion; to bear and raise his children, his sons. His heirs.

Even now, even though her strange husband has not been to her bed, when she thinks of her future she thinks of children. Before her marriage – before the deal she made that brought her to be Rumplestiltskin's wife – she had always thought that she would at least have the love of her children, and receive their love in return, even if there was no love in the marriage itself.

Belle pauses by a window, leans against the wall and stares out unseeing at the snowy landscape. She thinks of children, of the joy and noise they would bring to the Dark Castle, of the way they would ease her loneliness.

She wonders if he wants children; he is old, ancient beyond anyone's recollection, and if he'd wanted an heir he surely would have one by now. Perhaps he has no wish for children, she thinks, and that's why he doesn't push her for night-time companionship.

She pushes away from the wall and continues down the long corridor that runs along one side of the castle. There aren't many doors here, and most of the rooms she looks into are full of golden thread, and thoroughly uninteresting. At last she reaches the end of the corridor, and a door that at first resists her attempt to turn the handle. Belle has met these doors before, and is about to leave it alone – mindful always of Rumplestiltskin's warning to her on that first day here, nearly a fortnight ago now – but then, quite unexpectedly, the handle turns.

Belle hesitates for a moment. There's nothing to distinguish the door from any other in the castle, but no locked door has opened for her as this one just has, and she's not sure she should enter even though the handle has turned, and the door stands now ajar.

She pushes the door open, steps into the room.

It's cold and dark in here, curtains drawn across the single window, and she goes there first, pulls the curtain aside and ties it back. Then she turns and lets her gaze travel across the room. It's furnished – and not like some of the rooms, piled high with so much furniture that nobody could ever expect to _use_ the room. No, this room is furnished properly, as a space for living, and yet it's clear nobody has been here for years.

There's a bed – not large, it's child-sized, and there is children's clothing laid out on it. A boy's clothing, she sees, trousers and shirt and jacket, all well-made but well-worn, the material thin in places. The knees of the trousers are both patched several times over, as if the boy who'd worn them had spent far too much time tearing them open. Adventurous, Belle thinks with a slight smile as she looks down at the clothes and touches the fabric. An adventurous boy, climbing trees and falling over and getting into scrapes.

Her smile fades; she sits on the bed and looks around the rest of the room. There's a chair by the window, a small table nearby with a few books on it. Beside the table there's a basket full of miscellanea – a set of carved wooden soldiers, a faded and bedraggled teddy bear. Things that make Belle think this child had been poor, but loved.

Rumplestiltskin is not poor; he has more gold than he could ever possibly need, and from the way he treats her – the things he's given her – she's sure he wouldn't spare any expense in looking after a son. And yet the child who lived here, or the child to whom these things belong, had clearly not been raised by a wealthy man.

Perhaps these things were here when Rumplestiltskin came to the castle, but somehow Belle doesn't think so. She can't quite explain her reasoning to herself, but these things…they do not feel like things that have been left here, abandoned by whomever dwelled in the castle before he did. This room has something of the quality of a shrine to it, and Belle can't quite help a shiver as she glances around. She shouldn't have come in here, even though the door had opened for her. This is not a place for her – not a place for anyone, perhaps.

Whoever the boy was, she thinks, he was important. To someone, to Rumplestiltskin, he was important. Belle should not have intruded.

"What," says Rumplestiltskin from the door, "are you _doing_ here?"

His voice is low and dark and foreboding, and Belle starts in surprise, rises and turns to face him. He looks angrier than she has ever seen him look, as if all that's holding his fury in is sheer force of will. Belle's mouth is dry; she can't speak. She has nothing to say in any case, no defence to offer, and Rumplestiltskin steps into the room and snarls.

"_How_ _dare you_?" he storms, and Belle would step away from him but the bed is behind her, blocking any hope of putting distance between them. "How _dare_ you come in here?" His voice rises until he's shouting, and he's never shouted at her before – she's never heard his voice above a normal speaking level, and tears spring into her eyes.

"I didn't –" she tries to say, but Rumplestiltskin springs across the room, grasps her by the shoulders and flings her towards the door. Belle hits the doorframe so hard she cries out from the pain of it; she'll bruise, she thinks, with some small part of her mind that is still functioning.

"Get out!" he yells. "_Go!_" He advances on her, and it takes Belle a moment to force her limbs to move, to push herself away from the doorframe and stumble out into the corridor beyond. She can hardly see for tears, uses her hands to guide herself along the corridor, as far and as fast as she can go. She can hear crashing from the room, an agonised cry, but any sympathy she might have felt for his obvious distress has been obliterated by his anger – by the violent way he has handled her.

Nobody has ever lifted a hand to her before, not even as a child. She'd never been a naughty child, and the only discipline she'd ever received had been bed without supper on occasion. She has never been hit, never been thrown around in such a manner.

No, she thinks as she stumbles down a staircase, choking on her sobs, there had been one time. She had been just a little girl, and a stallion had got loose from his ropes and gone rampaging across the village square. Belle had frozen, terrified, and the blacksmith had shoved her out of the way, pushed her aside and shielded her with his own larger frame. But that had been done for her safety, and he'd apologised afterwards for her scrapes and grazes, made sure the cuts were clean and then taken her home.

Rumplestiltskin had seized her and flung her across the room as if she were no more than a doll. He had reacted with violence to whatever mistake she had made in entering that room, that boy's bedroom. Terrifying violence, terrifying how easily he had grasped her and thrown her. Belle has felt small and insignificant next to his power, his age, but never physically. Never in all the time she's been here has she truly been afraid that he would _hurt_ her.

Somehow she reaches her rooms, and Belle shuts the door, leans against it and tries to breathe deeply, tries to breathe through the tears that have made her face damp and her eyes swollen. There's no lock on the door; there's a latch, but no lock. Belle knows no lock would keep him out if he truly desired entrance, but she wishes for it nonetheless, if only to give him a moment's pause if he does try to enter.

A moment's pause to realise she does not wish to see him. Because Belle feels she could quite happily not see him again for several days, despite the isolation she's felt so keenly, after what he's just done to her.

In place of a lock, she drags an armchair across the floor and puts behind the door. It won't stop him if he wants to come in but it will make him pause, and she knows that's all she can hope for.

Then she goes to her armchair by the fire, collapses into it, covers her face with her hands and tries to stop crying.

It's more the shock of it, she reasons to herself, than that she's actually hurt. She'd hit the doorframe quite hard, true, but she doesn't ache, hasn't twisted any joint or muscle badly. At most she may have a bruised shoulder, so she cannot argue even to herself that pain has caused her tears. No, it's the shock, the terror she'd felt when she'd seen him, when he'd spoken so harshly, so angrily to her.

But the door had opened; she hadn't forced it, would never have attempted to gain entry if the handle hadn't turned beneath her hand. That, at least, will be some defence if he seeks her out and demands to know why she'd gone there.

At length Belle manages to stop crying, to cease the tears that had fallen silently but shaken her body. She wipes her hands dry on her skirts and then goes through her bedroom into the little wash room, pours cold water into the washbowl and rinses her face thoroughly. She feels a little better after that, and she goes to sit by the fire, eschewing the chair in favour of sitting on the floor, close enough to feel the heat on her skin, close enough to see every leaping spark and flickering flame.

Today has been perhaps the hardest day since her very first here in the Dark Castle. Then she hadn't known what to do, what to expect, or how he would treat her. It's been a fortnight and she'd thought things were settling down, thought she was beginning to grow comfortable here.

But today has been so agonisingly hard, and she misses her father terribly. She wants to be held by him, to hear his reassurances that everything will be alright, that she has done nothing wrong. She wants to hear him say he loves her, because she has lived with love her whole life until coming here and its absence _hurts_ her, deep inside. An ache in her heart that no amount of cordial conversation with Rumplestiltskin can ease.

But Belle is no longer a child. Her father is many miles away and she cannot leave the grounds, has no way to send him a message even if she thought he could help her. She must try to face this as an adult; she can demand no less of herself.

She has intruded; that much is obvious. Intruded upon something deeply private and painful, and she regrets it deeply. He is a strange man, with a twisted sense of humour and a dark soul, but he is her husband and she thinks perhaps she is slowly beginning to care for him. She is more afraid of him than she ever has been, more afraid even than that first night in her father's castle when she'd first seen him, but she wishes she could take back the injury she has done him.

Her intrusion cannot excuse his behaviour, his violence. He was not without provocation, but the reaction had been extreme, and Belle rubs at her shoulder now, feels it beginning to ache as the shock begins to fade. The ache spreads as she sits and stares into the fire, down her upper arm, all along where she'd hit the doorframe. She thinks she'll be bruised, but it's too cold to unlace her dress, to peel it away and look at her skin.

It's warm here, beside the fire, and she sits here until she grows stiff, her muscles aching with the effort of sitting still. At last she moves, stands up carefully and goes to wrap herself in a blanket. The sky is growing darker outside, heralding another storm of snow or rain, and Belle closes the curtains against it, doesn't want to see whatever the weather chooses to bring. She feels too upset to be able to cope with a storm somehow, knows that watching rain or snow falling would be too hypnotic, too dismal for her current mood.

When she turns back to the fire, there's a tray on the table next to her armchair. A tea tray – there's a small teapot, a cup, a delicate milk jug and matching sugar bowl. A plate piled high with bread and butter, another with scones, smothered with jam and thick cream. Belle wonders dully how the castle knew these are her favourites. Or perhaps, she thinks, it wasn't the castle. Perhaps it was Rumplestiltskin, who after all has shared most meals with her for the past week, and will certainly have seen her weakness for a scone with jam.

It's growing late and she hadn't eaten much at lunch. Belle hesitates for a moment, looking down at the tray, wondering if he did send it and if he did, what that might mean. Then she pours tea, takes a slice of bread, and curls up in her armchair with one of the few books she possesses. It's a novel she's read many times before, but that comforts her, the familiar tale and the familiar pages beneath her fingers, and for a while she loses herself in it.

Food, tea and peaceful reading are a balm, calming her mind and her body both, and she doesn't move from her chair for the next few hours. Suppertime comes and goes, but Belle's hunger was sated by the food provided on the tray, and she has no wish to leave her rooms and seek out food in the kitchen – let alone sit down to supper in the great hall with Rumplestiltskin.

She will have to face him at some point, but not tonight. Tonight she will stay in her rooms, lick her wounds and try to work out what she will do, how she will act, when she does see him again tomorrow.

At length, when the fire has burned low and Belle is over halfway through her novel, there is a knock at the door. Belle jumps a little, clutching her book so hard she almost creases a page; she smoothes it out, closes the book and puts it on the table beside her. He makes no attempt to enter the room – the handle does not turn, no pressure is exerted against the chair that stands against the door – but she feels vulnerable nonetheless. Her mouth is dry, but Belle rises, goes to stand close to the door and tries to speak clearly, steadily.

"What – what do you want?" she asks.

"May I come in?"

Belle shakes her head, grimaces at the uselessness of such a gesture. "No," she says, and she thinks she hears him sigh; but it could be the wind, which is blowing strongly outside her windows, rattling against the glass. "Please," she adds, "please, not tonight."

"_Belle_," he says, and Belle closes her eyes. She has never heard him say her name before, and she hates that he says it now, that he uses it against her like this. It's not fair, it's not kind, and she hates that she can feel tears pricking at her eyes once more.

"Goodnight, Rumplestiltskin," she manages to say, choking out the words, and she leans against the wall, hopes he will go.

After a long moment he speaks again. "Goodnight, then," he says, and then she can hear his footsteps, muffled through the sturdy wooden door, and growing quieter as he retreats.

Belle leaves the chair where it is, and goes to prepare herself for bed.


	17. Chapter 17

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes slowly, snuggled deep into her blankets, warm and cosy and with no particular desire to arise and face the day. For a long while she tries to stay asleep, tossing and turning in an attempt to regain a comfortable position, but at last she has to admit defeat. At last she has to emerge from her cocoon and face the world.

It's cold in her bedroom, and she tries to hurry into her clothes, although her arm and shoulder are aching badly and there's a bruise spreading across her skin. Shivering, Belle goes to her case, empty of most of her things now but still containing the little chest she'd brought from the still room in her father's castle. There's an ointment there for bruises, and she massages it into her skin, replaces the small jar in the chest and dresses as quickly as she can.

The fire in her sitting room is already crackling merrily, and Belle draws the curtains, peers out through the frosted glass. She doesn't think it has snowed more, but the temperature has dropped even further; it's frozen overnight, she thinks, and wonders how icy the kitchen yard will be when she goes to fetch water.

She withdraws from the window, hugs herself as she remembers why she hasn't left her room since yesterday afternoon. The tea tray is gone, but the door is still barred by the chair she'd heaved against it to prevent Rumplestiltskin's entry. No attempt has been made to move it, and she's grateful for that – grateful he remembered his promise that he would not come in without her invitation.

But she must face him. She must leave her rooms and venture out. She must resume, as far as she can, the routines she has fallen into with him, because she thinks – she hopes – that he regrets what he's done. He'd sought her out the night before, after all, and his voice had been soft, his use of her name an entreaty that she'd been hard pressed to ignore.

She must forgive him, and show that she's forgiven him by removing from herself any lasting hurt, any lingering sense of betrayal.

Belle lifts her hands, hides her face. Forgiveness, for the violence of his action that had terrified her more even than that night when he'd spoken of forcing her into welcoming him in her bed. She'd known, even then, that he would not do it, and thus the words had been easy to push aside. But her shoulder is aching, the bruising vivid on her skin. It will not fade quickly.

And yet she must forgive him, because he is her husband, and because she has no other company, and whilst she knows she cannot live with a man who does such things, neither can she bear solitude without release.

She will take her cue from him, she decides, and with that decision made she tugs the chair back into position, takes a deep breath and opens the door.

The corridor beyond the door is empty; there's nothing to show Rumplestiltskin has been there, and although she's not surprised by that, it eases a little of her tension. Her step is a little lighter as she walks the familiar path down through the castle to the kitchen, and when she reaches that room without incident, she breathes a little easier.

The kitchen fire is lit, as it always is when she arrives in the morning, and the kettle has been filled with water and merely needs to be swung across the fire. Belle chooses to think the castle has provided it, to think that the castle's magic has sensed her aching shoulder and spared her this chore, rather than think that Rumplestiltskin had a hand in it. Still, it means she doesn't have to venture out into the ice and snow for water, and she's grateful for that.

She breakfasts on the end of yesterday's bread, spread thickly with jam, and when the kettle boils she has chamomile tea instead of her usual blend, to help calm her nerves. There is no sign of Rumplestiltskin, and she can't decide if she's glad of the reprieve or more nervous from his continued absence. She doesn't like conflict, but at the same time she has no wish to postpone the inevitable, and they cannot avoid each other forever.

When she's finished she makes dough for more bread, and by the time she's mixed and kneaded it her shoulder is aching badly. Belle sets the dough to rise and goes to sit by the fire, props her elbow on the arm of the chair and rests her head in her hand. She feels tired and out of sorts, and unsure what she should do with her day. Part of her wants to keep out of Rumplestiltskin's way, and part of her wants to seek him out and –

And what? she asks herself. Have it out with him? She doesn't think she's brave enough for that, not when he might so easily become angry once again. Yet he'd come to her room last night, and he'd sounded penitent – sounded anguished, even, as if the knowledge that he has hurt her, scared her, was hard for him to bear.

She sighs, stretches her shoulder gingerly and then rises. When she turns to leave the kitchen, Rumplestiltskin is waiting for her in the doorway. He's made no sound in his approach, and Belle jumps, her breath hitching a little in surprise. He stands still in the doorway, hands clasped together, and Belle calms herself, hides her hands behind her back so he won't see them trembling.

"Good morning," she says. Her voice comes out quiet but firm, and she meets his gaze levelly.

"Good morning," he says in return, and they look at each other for long moments, time dragging as Belle wonders what to say, wonders what he will say to her. But he says nothing, and the silence stretches out uncomfortably.

"Do you want some tea?" she asks at last, and turns to put the kettle back over the fire. She can't look at him anymore, busies herself with fetching the things to make him tea.

"Thank you," he says. She hears him step into the kitchen, feels flustered and awkward and almost spills the tea leaves as she shakes a handful from the jar into the teapot. She takes a deep breath, puts the jar back onto the shelf and turns to take the teapot to the table. But Rumplestiltskin stands between her and the table, a little too close for comfort, and she drops her gaze, clasps the teapot tightly with both hands.

"You're hurt," he says quietly, more subdued than she's ever heard him. "Will you allow me to heal it, my lady?"

Belle shakes her head, holds the teapot close to her almost as a defence.

"No," she says. "No." He makes a sound, discontented and unhappy, but Belle won't agree just to make him feel better. She will keep her bruise and her ache and she will not let him erase it with magic. It happened; it has consequences. He must accept that as well as she.

"I don't want you to be afraid," he mutters, and Belle glances up at him then, finds him agitated and distressed and is surprised that despite her own distress, her first instinct is to comfort him. "I – I should not have done it," he says, meeting her gaze, and she nods slowly.

"No," she agrees. "You should not. I've never been afraid of you like that before, Rumplestiltskin. I've never truly thought you would harm me." He almost flinches, but seems to remember himself in time, to remember who he is and the façade he likes to present, because he scowls and draws himself up tall, folds his arms across his chest.

"You shouldn't have trespassed there," he snaps, and Belle lowers her eyes, steps past him as the kettle comes to the boil. She puts the teapot down on the table and reaches for the kettle, but she handles it awkwardly and her shoulder twinges; she hisses through her teeth at the unexpected ache, and Rumplestiltskin comes to take the kettle from her, pours water into the teapot and then returns the kettle to its hook.

"Sit down," he says, and a hand on her uninjured shoulder propels her to a seat. Belle lets him direct her, sits down wearily and watches as he prepares his own tea.

"The door opened," she says at last. "I haven't gone through any door that hasn't opened to me. You told me not to." That startles him, and he looks at her thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed in a frown. "It _opened_," she insists, and eventually he gives a curt nod, his anger fading as quickly as it had come.

"It shouldn't have," he says. "But…you keep your word, so I trust you're right." He sits opposite her, cradles his tea cup in his hands. The chipped cup, and he holds it delicately, taps it lightly with one sharp, pointed nail. Belle clasps her hands together in her lap and presses her lips together to keep from saying anything foolish. "It will not happen again," he says.

"I won't go there again," Belle promises at once. "I didn't mean to intrude – truly, the door opened for me." He grimaces, and Belle leans back in her chair, lowers her gaze. She'd hoped he would believe her, but his next words make her understand that it's not disbelief that's making him irritable.

"My own actions," he says. "_That_…that will never happen again." He leans across the table, silent until she looks up at him again, meets his gaze. "You have my word," he says, and his voice is firm and sure, so determined that Belle nods acceptance. She believes him, although she knows it will take more than a promise to keep her from being afraid. He's said he shouldn't have done it, but he still _did_ it. He'd grabbed her and flung her across the room as if she weighed nothing, and if he could do it once, he's capable of doing it again.

But then, she thinks, he's promised now. And if there's one thing that all the stories agree upon, it's that Rumplestiltskin keeps his word. He never breaks a deal, once struck, and his words now have something of the quality of a deal about them.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "I –" But she's not sure what she means to say, so she falls silent again. Rumplestiltskin sips his tea, keeps watching her, and she thinks he's afraid of something, but she can't work out what.

She wants to ask whose room it was, but she knows that would be beyond foolish. She watches Rumplestiltskin drink his tea, watches the movement of his mouth as he sips, the graceful way he holds his cup. He's wearing a yellow silk shirt, and she thinks, idly, that it suits him. He's a slender man, and not tall, and it's strange to think so much power is contained within him.

He finishes his tea, places the cup on the table. Belle waits; he seems on the verge of saying something, and his fingers flutter through the air before he catches himself, stills himself.

"You may," he says at last, "write a letter to your father. And anyone else you choose, I suppose." Belle almost gapes at him, she's so surprised – in her time here he's hardly mentioned her father and friends, and there has never been any suggestion that she might write to them – but he looks so awkward that she conceals her shock, offers him a careful smile.

"Thank you," she says. "I'd like that." He nods, a curt little gesture that oddly makes her smile a little wider. He wants to be kind, she thinks, he wants to be a good husband, he's just not sure how to be. "I'll write to them this morning," she says.

"Good." He rises, takes his cup to the sink, faces away from her as he speaks. "Bring your letters to my workroom," he tells her. "I will not read them, but –" He swings around then, stares down at her, lifts a hand to point his finger at her. "Do not write of this place," he instructs. "Or of any magic you've seen. Nothing of my work here. Do you understand?"

Belle nods thoughtfully; she thinks she understands. His location here can hardly be a secret – the Dark Castle, he calls it, and although she'd never heard of his home before, such a castle cannot be a secret among those who wish to find Rumplestiltskin. But Rumplestiltskin is someone who guards his secrets, and whatever his reasons, she will obey him.

"I understand," she says. "I won't speak of any of it."

"Good," he says, dropping his hand to his side. He grins at her then, all dark amusement, and Belle waits. "Best not to talk too much about me, either, dearie," he advises. "Don't want your jilted fiancé storming the gates because of a letter, do we?"

Belle sighs, rises and pushes her chair neatly under the table. She hadn't realised Rumplestiltskin had known about Gaston – and she's hardly thought of her former fiancé, in truth, far too busy trying to build a life for herself here. Gaston is not someone she'd ever thought much about even when she'd been engaged to him, if she's honest with herself, and unlike her father or mother, he's not someone Belle minds Rumplestiltskin poking fun at.

"Indeed not," she says, and she smiles unexpectedly, finds she's amused by the idea. "What an awful prospect," she adds. He laughs, and if it's a little high, a little like his malicious giggle, she doesn't mind. She never cared for Gaston, after all. "Where is your workroom?" she asks, going to put more wood on the fire. "I haven't been there."

"The north tower. As high as you can go."

"Of course." She throws him a smile over her shoulder, and his pleasure at receiving such a small gesture is palpable; he preens, almost like a cat, strands a little taller, his shoulders well back and a smile on his face. "Where else would a magician's workroom be?" she adds.

"Hm." His smile widens, baring teeth. "Indeed." He turns to leave, and she watches him go, begins to let her mind drift towards the things she will write in her letters. He pauses in the doorway, turns back to look at her. "I almost forgot," he says, amusement curling around his words, "there is something for you in the great hall. I'd go quickly, if I were you. It might end up making a mess, and since you're insisting on cleaning the castle…" He trails off, shrugs a shoulder and then leaves.

Belle frowns, pours the remainder of the hot water from the kettle into the sink and washes the dishes as quickly as she can. She can't imagine what he could have brought her that would create a mess – for it's clear it's a present from him, whatever it is. She has a feeling his guilt runs rather deeper than she'd suspected. The gift of being able to write letters home would have been enough for her to understand he's truly sorry, but perhaps she hasn't showed that well enough.

Well, if he wishes to give her things, Belle has no particular objection. He's clothed her, after all, and whilst the clothes are a little richer than those she'd brought with her, nothing is particularly lavish. If he begins to shower her with jewels, or other impractical articles, she'll object and hope he'll listen. As it is, his gifts so far have been thoughtful, personal. Things she's needed or, in the case of the letters, things she's badly missed.

She dries her hands on a towel and hurries through the castle to the great hall. The curtains are still nailed shut, and she reminds herself once more to ask him if they can be opened. He's not here, and she assumes he's in his work room, wonders for a moment that he hasn't stayed to see her reaction. Then her attention is wholly taken up with the basket that's sitting beside his spinning wheel.

She laughs in pure delight; she can't help it. In the basket are two small kittens, and as she watches a third, more adventurous than its companions, appears from behind Rumplestiltskin's stool. Belle sinks to her knees beside the basket, reaches for the errant kitten and cradles it in her hands.

It's warm and _living_ and kittens won't be able to talk to her, to fill her day with conversation, but it's more than she had before. She'd never expected it, but Rumplestiltskin is thoughtful, observant, and he's seen how lonely she is, how the isolation has worn on her. She holds this little kitten in her hands and can't help smiling. His desire to make amends could not be clearer, she thinks. And she'll forgive him, of course, for she's sure he won't do it again, not now he's given his word.

She puts the kitten back with its fellows, picks up the basket, and makes her way up to her rooms to begin her letters.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It takes Belle longer to write her letters than she'd hoped. Partly it's because she keeps getting distracted, the new kittens delightful in their exploration of her rooms, but mostly it's because she struggles to know what to write. Lunchtime comes and goes and still the letters are unfinished, and she's wasted paper in her attempts.

She cannot write much of her new home, and she can hardly write of Rumplestiltskin. He hasn't forbidden it, but she doesn't know what she can safely say to her father and Laura. She can say nothing of his changeable moods, his anger or cutting sarcasm, because that would only bring grief to her father. But neither can she write of his goodness, of his consideration, for she's sure her father would believe her to be lying to spare his feelings.

In the end her letter to her father is short and stilted. Belle hopes it won't worry him; she's tried to talk of her life, of the comforts she's found, but almost every word seems wrong, and after her third attempt she decides sending _something_ is better than nothing.

Her letter to Laura is a little easier to compose; in guarded words she writes of how Rumplestiltskin treats her. Laura will not grieve to hear of Rumplestiltskin's attempts at kindness, of the way Belle is trying to teach him to be kind. But even here Belle is circumspect, careful in how she describes her life and her husband.

She does not wish anyone to believe she is unhappy here, does not want to give anyone cause to think she wishes to leave. It's more than her promise, she thinks, more than the deal she's made that keeps her here. She might wish for company other than him, for a conversation in which she does not have to watch her every word, but she _likes_ Rumplestiltskin. She thinks in time she could grow to care for him more than she might have grown to care for another husband. Certainly more than she could ever have cared for Gaston.

She finishes the letters in time for afternoon tea and, after making sure the kittens are all asleep in their basket and safely shut into her rooms, she takes the letters down with her to prepare the teapot and cups. There aren't any cakes or pastries in the larder today, so she slices bread and butters it, adds it to the tray and then departs the kitchen to seek out Rumplestiltskin.

The north tower isn't hard to find, but there are innumerable steps and by the time Belle reaches the top, and the door leading into Rumplestiltskin's workroom, she's out of breath and hot. The door stands slightly ajar, but she knocks and waits for an invitation before entering. She hasn't been invited here before – hadn't even known of the room's existence – and she senses this too is part of his apology to her. She has been invited into a space that had previously belonged solely to him, and she won't take liberties with it.

"Come," he calls, sounding distracted, and Belle pushes the door open, steps into the room and stands, tray in her hands, staring around her.

It's a big room, circular and occupying the whole of the tower, with large windows letting in plenty of light. There's a long table that takes up a great deal of space, occupied with books and glass containers of various shapes and sizes. There are bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, only some of which she recognises. The fire's blazing in the fireplace, and a cauldron sits beside it, emitting strange-smelling smoke. A strange case stands near a window, holding glass vials, each containing a different thing, herbs or spices or pieces of bark – mostly things she can't identify.

Rumplestiltskin is perched on a stool at one end of the table, a book open in front of him, one finger pressed to the page. He glances up at her, and she sees a brief flash of surprise before he straightens, puts a ribbon in the book to mark his place and closes the book with a thump.

"My lady," he says. He spreads his arms, a flourish of his hands, and inclines his head. "Welcome to my lair," he adds, baring teeth in a grin, and Belle laughs, shakes her head at him.

"I brought tea," she says. "And my letters." She approaches the table, looks dubiously for somewhere to put the tray. Rumplestiltskin makes an amused sound, clears a place for it and Belle smiles her thanks, puts the tray down and pours tea for him. She's brought a cup for herself as well, but she doesn't want to assume she can join him here, bites her lip as she glances at him hoping for some indication either way.

"Stay," he murmurs, and Belle nods, prepares her own tea and leans against the table as she brings the cup to her lips. Rumplestiltskin doesn't take his own cup; he reaches instead for her letters, the rolls of parchment that sit in a corner of the tray. They're unsealed – Belle had brought no sealing wax with her from her father's castle, an oversight that she'd assumed would never matter – but Rumplestiltskin makes no attempt to unroll the pages. Instead he rises, goes to a small desk set against the table, and uses his own wax to create a seal on them.

Belle watches, feeling barely able to breathe at the trust he is showing her. She'd assumed, despite his earlier words, that he would read her letters. That he has not done so is important, means he is perhaps beginning to trust her.

She wants to say something, to thank him, but she holds her tongue. She's not sure any thanks would be welcomed. She watches as Rumplestiltskin goes to the window and opens it; a few moments later a pigeon appears, as if called by magic – almost certainly called by magic, she corrects herself – and he gives it the scrolls, launches it back out of the window.

"It will take a few days," he tells her as he shuts the window, latching it firmly. He doesn't turn back to her, stands there with facing the window, and Belle finds herself admiring his lean lines. She blushes, busies herself with drinking her tea and, when he returns to the table, has conquered herself enough to present a serene smile.

"Thank you," she says. "And – for the kittens." Her smile widens, and Rumplestiltskin grins at her, all glittering amusement and proud satisfaction. He's gratified his present has pleased her, she thinks, that he's provided something she needed.

He'd called it his duty, she remembers, to provide for her. And he seems to take some pleasure in it, in providing things she needs, or things she wants. He seems a little easier with her thanks now, as well. Not like when she'd first arrived, when he'd stared at her when she expressed her gratitude.

Little steps, Belle thinks, and she smiles to herself as she sips her tea.

Rumplestiltskin doesn't sit; he leans against the table next to her, barely a few inches between them. She can feel the warmth of him, the way their elbows almost brush as they drink their tea. She wonders what he'd do if she reached out, if she leaned in just a little so their shoulders are touching.

She doesn't do it; she sips her tea and feasts her eyes on the strange things in his room. There's an odd smell coming from the cauldron, something almost sweet, and the various herbs strung from the rafters add to the pleasant smells here. It's a room that's lived in, she decides, more than most other rooms in the castle. She thinks he probably spends most of his time here, when he's not spinning in the great hall or out making his deals. A sanctuary of sorts, just as her own rooms are.

And she's been invited in; that warms her, more than any of his other apologies today. More than the kittens and the gift of letters, or his promise that he will never hurt her again. This is trust, just as he's shown trust by sending her letters unread. He is, slowly, beginning to trust her.

When he speaks it's sudden, unexpected, and Belle's startled by it. His voice is low, and so soft she has to strain to hear it.

"He was my son," he tells her. "He's gone now."

"Oh," Belle breathes. "I'm sorry." She doesn't know what to say – she'd wondered, when she'd been in that room, if it was possible that the child had been Rumplestiltskin's, but she hadn't expected him to confirm it. His anger now seems, if not acceptable, at least a little more understandable.

"It was a long time ago."

Belle puts her cup down on the table, turns towards him, reaches out and rests a hand on his arm. He looks at her, startled, bemused, but Belle doesn't withdraw.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "You must miss him a great deal." Rumplestiltskin glances down at her hand, looks back at her, and he looks so bewildered, so honestly confused by her sympathy and her touch. Belle wants to do more, to hug him as she'd hug her father or her friends when they need a comforting touch. But this is Rumplestiltskin, and she doesn't quite dare.

"I do," he says at last. "Every day." He shakes her off, moves away from her to put his empty cup back on the tray. Belle bites back a sigh, hugs herself and turns away, not wanting to leave yet but unsure what to say.

She wonders if children would ease the hurt for him, and shakes the thought away almost as soon as she articulates it in her mind. There will be no children unless he comes to her bed, and Belle's not ready for that, not willing enough for him, not yet. Besides, she thinks, even if there are children, they can never replace the lost son.

She thinks the son must have died young; it would explain the child's clothing, the toys in the room. A son who'd grown and then died would not have been cause for the creation of such a shrine. She cannot contemplate the heartache of losing a child, although she knows it may happen to her. Children die, of myriad causes, and childbirth itself is hard.

She thinks, fleetingly, of her mother, of the pain and blood of the birthing room.

"I'm sorry," she says again, and she feels stupid even as she says it, but there's nothing else she can say to him. "I would never have…" She trails off with a sigh. She never would have gone into that room had she known, but then the door had opened to her touch, and neither of them have an explanation for that. It's possible, Belle thinks, that the castle had worked against Rumplestiltskin's will and unlocked the door. The castle provides, for Rumplestiltskin as well as herself, and although he's said the castle doesn't think, isn't alive in that manner, perhaps in some strange way it worked to give her the knowledge of his lost son.

It means she knows him a little better, after all. But it's a foolish thought, and it hardly matters now.

"You have no reason to apologise, my lady," he says, and Belle turns, finds him standing beside her. "The door opened. And I," he adds with a grimace, "acted unforgivably."

Belle licks her lips – watches as his eyes focus on the movement – and shakes her head.

"Not…unforgivable," she says slowly. Forgiveness can't come so quickly, not after the way he scared her, but certainly she thinks she can forgive him. He's given his word that it will never happen again, and he's trying, in his own way, to make it up to her.

He gives a thin smile, lifts a hand and gestures at her shoulder. "But unforgotten," he says. "Run along, dearie. I must return to my work."

It's a blunt dismissal, and he moves to return to his books, but Belle reaches out, grasps his shoulder, feels fine silk beneath her hand. Rumplestiltskin stops still with an irritated sigh, but his glare is lacklustre when he looks back at her.

"What is it?" he demands, and Belle's words dry in her mouth. But she gulps in a breath, tugs a little at his sleeve, takes a step closer so they're almost pressed together.

"I can't forget," she says. "But it's not unforgivable. And I know you're sorry." He says nothing, and Belle seizes her courage. She uses his shoulder to balance herself, lifts herself up and presses her mouth to his.

She intended for it to be a brief gesture, a chaste brush of lips just as she had given him three days ago when he had promised her the gift of suitably warm clothing. But Rumplestiltskin makes a sound, a groan, and his hands come to rest at her waist, pulling her flush against him. Startled, Belle almost pulls away, but he lifts a hand, slides his fingers into her hair and keeps her with him. He opens his mouth, traces her lower lip with his tongue, as if he's tasting her. He coaxes her own mouth open, and Belle almost shivers as his tongue dips into her mouth, warm and wet.

She's never been kissed like this; she's seen people kissing, and supposed it to be pleasant, but she'd never imagined it would be like this. The _taste_ of him, the warmth of his hand at her waist, the way his fingers are tangled in her hair. His tongue fluttering against hers, and her desire to be part of this, to follow where he leads her, to learn from him how to kiss. She closes her eyes, to better concentrate on the feeling, and feels her world narrow; his mouth against hers, his hand at her waist, holding her against him.

She's breathless when they part, and Rumplestiltskin's breathing is a little ragged too. Belle opens her eyes and finds him watching her, and it's clear he's trying to be expressionless, trying to force his face to be a blank, but he doesn't quite succeed; his eyes are narrowed a little, his lips pursed.

He's afraid of what she will do, Belle realises then. He's afraid she'll reject him. He calls himself beast and monster, and he doesn't think she could ever…

She smiles softly, lifts her hand from his shoulder and strokes her fingers down his cheek. His skin isn't as rough as she'd imagined, but neither is it as soft as her own. He inhales sharply at her touch, lets his fingers slip from her hair.

"I'll leave you to your work," she murmurs, and Rumplestiltskin nods slowly, watches her with something like awe, something like wonder. "I'll see you this evening," she adds. "For supper."

"Supper," he repeats. Then he shakes himself, pulls away from her, and Belle's surprised by how much she misses the feel of his hand at her waist. He seems flustered still, although he's trying hard to appear composed, unaffected. Belle clears her throat, turns to the table and picks up the tray.

"I'll see you later, then," she says, and she risks one more glance at him. He's standing half-facing away from her, his hand raised, his fingers touching his mouth. As surprised as she is, she thinks, by what's just happened. But she knows he desires her – knows he must have wanted this.

And she wanted it too; she wants it again. The knowledge of that fills her with warmth, with hope that she is building something here with Rumplestiltskin, that together they are building a relationship that is based on more than simply a deal to save her village. It's more than she thought to have from her marriage – from any marriage, let alone this one.

She leaves him to his work, and holds back her joyful happiness until she's safely in her rooms.


	19. Chapter 19

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

She thinks supper might be awkward, after their encounter, but in the end it isn't, mostly because when Rumplestiltskin arrives in the great hall for the meal, she's up a ladder trying to get the curtains down from the windows. They've been closed since she arrived, day and night, and she's determined to get the nails out and pull the curtains back. It's perhaps not the best time, but supper is on the table and she's a little early, and she'd found a ladder in one of the storerooms near the kitchen today so she'd decided she might as well make use of the time.

When Rumplestiltskin speaks, she almost falls off the ladder.

"What are you doing?" he asks, bemused, and Belle grabs hold of the curtain to keep herself from unbalancing.

"You really shouldn't startle people on ladders," she says, and he snorts, comes to stand beside the ladder, reaches out a hand to keep it stable. "I'm trying to get the curtains down."

"It's dark," he points out, and Belle glances down at him, smiles.

"I know," she says. "But it won't be tomorrow. Why did you nail them shut?"

"It's called the _Dark_ Castle, dearie," Rumplestiltskin says, and Belle's smile widens as she climbs down the ladder. "It's atmospheric," he adds, and Belle reaches the ground, his arm almost around her now as he continues to hold the ladder. She flushes, and there's something of a smirk lingering on his expression as he looks at her. But the smirk fades, leaves something softer behind, and he releases the ladder, takes her hand instead, lifts it to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

"But if my lady wishes," he says, "they can come down." He snaps the fingers of his free hand, and the curtains crumple, robbed of their nails, and fall in dusty heaps to the floor. Belle stands still and silent, once more reminded of how powerful he is, awed at the display of that power, and Rumplestiltskin giggles, releases her hand. "There," he says. "Rather dark outside though, don't you think?"

"A little," Belle agrees, forcing herself to speak, forcing aside the twinge of fear she feels whenever he uses magic so freely. "You could have left them hanging," she adds, daring, and he laughs, gestures for her to precede him to the table.

"You're so insistent on creating work for yourself, dearie," he says. "Far be it from me to deprive you." He pulls her chair out for her, not something he normally does, and Belle smiles at him once more, pleased by the gesture. There are times like this, when there's flashes of something gentlemanly beneath his prickly exterior, that she almost forgets who he is. What he is.

"I suppose I forgive you, then," she says, teasing a little. She sees a flash of a smile, something between pleasure and amusement, as he turns away from her to take his own seat. She likes that she can please him, at least a little. It's far better than provoking his anger, after all, and she'd married him intending to learn his moods, intending to learn how to please him so that he would not be disappointed in her as his wife.

And he's doing the same, she realises. He's learning how to please her, too, learning the things she likes and trying to make her as happy as she can be here.

He wants her to be happy here – with him.

The thought makes her smile, and she hides it, turns her attention to her meal. She's let the castle prepare supper this evening, because she's exhausted her own meagre knowledge of cookery, and she's hardly a good cook, knows he's been more than patient with her attempts. She longs for some direction, a recipe book perhaps, of the kind she's seen in Laura's kitchen many times. She wishes now she'd spent more time in her father's kitchen, but it had never been considered a suitable occupation for a noble lady. Embroidery and dancing and etiquette – those had been drilled into her until she could have cried from boredom, and management of a household once she'd grown a little older. She'd learned more of cookery later, when more and more people had been sent to the war, but even then her time had been much occupied with the still room, and the infirmary.

"Deep thoughts, my lady?" Rumplestiltskin enquires, and Belle pulls herself out of thought, shakes her head.

"Hardly," she says. "I was thinking that I wish I'd learned more about cooking." He laughs at that, high-pitched, sliding into his giggle, and Belle shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't mind him laughing at that, knows her thoughts have been more prosaic than he suspected.

"You could do with some practice," he agrees, and if he intends to be cruel, Belle doesn't take it so. She smiles, takes a sip of her wine.

"I could," she says. "Cookery was never considered something I should learn. I – " She hesitates for a moment, and Rumplestiltskin watches her, inscrutable. She wants to ask for a book, because he's been in such a good mood today, so agreeable, so determined to make amends for what happened yesterday. But she has no wish to take advantage of that, and she'd promised herself, two weeks ago when she'd first arrived, that she would not ask him for things.

"What is it?" he asks, and he's gentle now, almost concerned in the way he looks at her.

"If I had a cookery book," she says, her words rushed, "I might get better."

"Hm." Rumplestiltskin leans back, taps his fingers in an irregular rhythm on the table. "I suppose such books might be acquired." He smirks, tilts his head to one side as he looks at her, and she almost holds her breath as she waits for whatever comes next. "If you insist on trying, I suppose the least I can do is help keep you from poisoning me."

Belle laughs, light and mirthful, and Rumplestiltskin lifts an eyebrow.

"If I were going to poison you," Belle says, "surely I would have done it by now?" He smiles at that, inclines his head in acknowledgement, and then they're silent for a while as they eat. Between bites, Belle gazes out of the window at the darkness outside. It will be nice, she decides, to have daylight in here tomorrow. She'll have to hang the curtains again, but he's saved her a lot of work with his magic.

Still, she's not quite comfortable with it, his casual use of magic. Before coming here she'd seen a little magic, but not often, and never so easily used. There had been a woman in the village with a little healing power, and once a travelling minstrel had made a spectacular display of lights whilst playing ballads for them in the castle. But never such powerful magic as Rumplestiltskin shows with a snap of his fingers.

It's yet another thing she knows she'll have to get used to, for she can hardly expect him to go against who he is.

"Why _are_ you so determined to cook?" Rumplestiltskin asked her then, and he sounds genuinely perplexed; when Belle glances at him he's frowning at her, not in displeasure but in confusion.

She takes her time answering. He's been more than pleasant today, he's been attentive and considerate, penitent and determined to gain her trust. She doesn't want to ruin that by her words – but she can't lie to him. She thinks he'd know if she lied.

She puts down her fork, folds her hands together in her lap. "I must do something," she says, and she can't look at him as she speaks. "You told me, when I came here, that you have no use for me."

"I –"

"No, it's fine," Belle interrupts him, and she ought to be amazed that she dares to do it – she doesn't think many people dare to interrupt Rumplestiltskin – but all she can think of is getting her words out. "I don't mind. I know you said you chose to marry me as your price because it's what I least wanted to give, and you were right." She can't look at him, has no idea how he's taking this, but she can't stop now. "I don't _mind_ making my own place here," she tells him. "But I must do something. Don't you see that?"

She's silent then, presses her lips firmly together to keep from spilling more foolish words, and she swallows hard, looks down at her hands twisting together. He's silent, and Belle closes her eyes and wishes her words unsaid.

"I do see," says Rumplestiltskin at last, and there's no censure in his voice, nothing of cruelty of malice as she's dreaded. His tone is low and even, and Belle opens her eyes, looks up at him. He's still, utterly still as he watches her, and that disturbs her a little. Rumplestiltskin always seems most comfortable when he's moving – a flutter of fingers through the air, a step danced sidewise, even the movements of his mutable face – and the stillness seems almost unnatural in him.

"I do see," he says again. "Forgive me, my lady. It was cruelly said." Belle nods; she doesn't trust herself to speak. Rumplestiltskin huffs a sigh, rises with a scrape of his chair legs against the floor and goes away from the table, goes to stand next to his spinning wheel. He doesn't say anything else, and Belle feels she's made some misstep, some error that's offended him. She doesn't want that, so she pushes her chair back, goes to join him, lifts a hand tentatively to touch his shoulder.

"Please," she says, "I didn't mean to upset you." He doesn't shake her off, and that encourages her. "You said, a few days ago, that you didn't know what you expected me to do here. Is it wrong of me to try to occupy myself?"

"Not at all," he says at once, and he turns towards her, lifts a hand and strokes his fingers down her cheek. It's almost as if he doesn't realise what he's doing, for a moment later he shakes himself and lets his hand fall to his side. "You are coping admirably with the situation," he says, and there's something malicious in his voice, but it's not quite directed at her. His lip curls in a sneer, but his eyes are unfocused, and Belle doesn't think she is the object of his scorn.

She remembers what he's called himself – beast, monster – and wonders how poor an opinion of himself he has.

"I'm not unhappy here," she says impulsively. "I'm lonely, but I'm not unhappy." Her hand is still on his shoulder, and she licks her lips, slides her hand down his arm and catches his hand in hers, links their fingers together. Rumplestiltskin's mouth moves silently, as if he can't find the words he wants, and Belle offers him a smile. "Truly," she says. "And I like cooking. I like learning new things."

He gives a laugh, a harsh barking sound. "That's just as well, dearie," he says. "Given where you find yourself." And who she finds herself with, although they both leave that unsaid. He squeezes her hand, just a little, just enough for her to feel the pressure of it. "I'll get your books," he tells her. "If that's what you want."

"Thank you," she says. She hadn't wanted to ask him for anything, but she's pleased he'll fulfil her request, pleased he hasn't spun into anger as she thinks he so easily might have done at her truthful answers to his questions. But then new cookery books are a trifle compared to some of the things he's done – healing her hand, and providing warm clothing for the winter. A few books must seem very little to a man capable of so much.

He looks at her then with a look she's coming to recognise; a look that makes her feel oddly nervous, her heartbeat fluttering and her mouth dry. It's not a look that scares her, but she knows what he's thinking, feels so very aware of her hand in his, the calluses she can feel against her own softer skin.

She licks her lips, and his gaze flickers downwards for a brief moment. He desires her, here in this moment, and Belle can't say she's willing, she can't, not truly.

But she wants him to kiss her again.

Belle blushes then, tries to pull her hand from his, to retreat and gain some distance between them. Rumplestiltskin doesn't let her – he doesn't pull her against him, as he so easily might, but he keeps hold of her hand, takes a step to match her, and he's smiling now, a small thing, his eyes glittering with amusement.

"Why, my lady, one would almost think you're running away," he says, and it's a taunt but not cruel, not malicious. He's _teasing_ her, Belle realises, and she stops still, lets him pull her back towards him, lets him take her other hand.

"I'm not running," she denies, and she catches the amusement lurking in the creases of his face, tries to offer a smile in return. Rumplestiltskin's grasp of her hands is firm but not tight, not painful, but Belle finds she has no desire to be released.

So many things have changed over the past day and she's running to catch up, to work out what any of it means. His violence, and his apology, and the kittens and inviting her into his workroom – the kiss they'd shared, up in the north tower. She feels somehow that she has crept under his outermost defences. That she has peeled back one layer of the complicated being that is Rumplestiltskin.

She needs time to think about these things, time to work out how she feels about her own wants. Because she's married now, and still she has no real idea what men and women do in bed together. She's innocent in more ways than one – so wholly innocent not only of marital relations but of _relationships_ between men and women, between husband and wife.

She'd had no idea what kisses could be, how a kiss could make her feel – how _his_ kiss, and being held by him so possessively, could make her feel desired and cared for.

"Why won't you use my name?" she asks impulsively then, and he hums, tilts his head as he looks at her.

"Names are special," he says at last. "They hold power." He's serious now, all trace of amusement gone, no longer teasing her. "A name is a powerful thing to give away," he adds, and Belle frowns, bites her lip for a moment.

"But you let me use your name," she says. "And – and you called my name, last night." Rumplestiltskin smiles tightly, releases her hands but doesn't step away from her. Belle feels unaccountably rejected, cut adrift from the touch that she's grown used to so quickly.

"So I did," he says. But he says nothing further, offers no further explanations, and Belle wraps her arms around herself and watches as he goes to sit at his spinning wheel. She knows him well enough by now to know she won't gain further conversation from him now; he will probably spend the rest of the evening at his wheel.

She stifles a sigh and goes to collect their discarded supper things, piles the plates onto the tray and then adds the wine glasses, and places the bottle of wine carefully towards the middle of the tray.

"Leave that," he says, and when she glances at him he hasn't looked up, is entirely focused on his wheel. Belle nods anyway, removes the wine bottle and one glass from the tray.

"Goodnight, then," she says, and leaves before she hears whether he responds or not.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

The next few days are strange, full of an awkwardness that almost makes Belle regret the kiss they'd shared. Rumplestiltskin seems to avoid her as much as he can. They still share supper together in the great hall, but he's brusque and taciturn, and so the meals are uncomfortably quiet. He is absent from breakfast, and although he continues to take tea with her in the afternoon, he's just as quiet then as he is at supper. At all the meals he attends, he seems to watch her without watching; every time Belle glances at him, his attention seems occupied elsewhere, but she can't shake the feeling that he's watching her whenever she looks away from him.

Apart from mealtimes, Belle spends much of her time in the kitchen. She'd come down, the morning after their conversation, to find several cookery and housewifery books waiting for her on the kitchen table, and three days later she's tried several of the recipes and thinks she's improving a little.

The writers of the books, of course, assume either that the housewife is doing all the work alone, or that she has servants to do that work. Belle has no servants to tend the fires, or to prepare and store food, or simply to help her in her cooking – but she has magic, something the books do not touch upon. The castle's magic provides for her as it has done since she arrived, and she hardly ever has to do more than put a log on the fire, or move a pot closer or further away from the great hearth. Food does not grow stale in the larder; if she leaves something out, it is returned mysteriously to its place the next time she looks for it.

She's growing surprisingly used to magic, and it's a bit unsettling to realise how quickly that's happening. Magic fills her bath, empties her chamber pot, replaces candles when they've burnt low, cleans the fireplaces and keeps fires well-fed. Magic replaces the need for humans entirely.

The strangeness, the way Rumplestiltskin is almost avoiding her, is broken on the fourth day when he seeks her out. She's in the kitchen, sitting beside the fire with a book on her lap; two of the kittens are fast asleep in their basket by the fire, and the third is wandering around pouncing on shadows, making Belle giggle whenever she happens to glance up and see her.

Rumplestiltskin appears as silently as ever, materialising at her side in between heartbeats. He's wearing his coat, his boots are covered in mud, and Belle spares a brief moment to wonder where he's been, to wonder _how long_ he's been out, for it's mid-afternoon now and she hasn't seen him since before breakfast. He'd made no mention then of leaving the castle, and she realises now that he could have left many times, in the weeks since she's been here, without her realising it.

"Hello," she greets, cautious, hesitant after the past few days. He nods at her but says nothing, and she hides her disappointment as well as she can. She glances away, to the kitten who's now joining her fellows in the basket, and wonders what he wants, why he's come if he has no intention of speaking. He must know how it unsettles her, she thinks, and wonders if that's why he does it.

"You have letters," he says then, and produces two scrolls with a flourish. "They arrived a moment ago." He hands them over to her, and Belle takes them with a smile, pleased by the quick response and by the knowledge that he's brought them straight to her. He could easily have withheld them until supper, she thinks, and then she wouldn't have been able to read them until later, until she was alone in her room for the night.

Not that she can read now, in front of him. She doesn't know what the letters contain, but even if neither her father nor Laura have written of Rumplestiltskin, she can't read them while he's here. It would be rude, apart from anything else.

"Thank you," she says. "I didn't expect them so quickly." He opens his mouth to speak but Belle holds up a hand, offers a merry smile. "I know," she says. "Magic." He closes his mouth with an audible click, and he looks almost as if he's going to sulk because she didn't allow him to answer. Belle stifles her amusement – he sometimes acts in unexpectedly childish ways – and closes her recipe book.

"Would you like tea?" she asks, expecting a refusal. It's earlier than normal, but she's thirsty, and she's experimented with making pastry today, has used dried fruit and some jam from the larder to make a fruit pie that should be ready now. Certainly it's filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering smell. She wonders, smiling, if that's partly what's drawn him down from his tower.

"Yes," he says, and takes a step away from her so she has room to get up. "Thank you," he adds, and Belle nods, puts the book and her letters down on her vacated chair and goes to swing the kettle over the fire. She opens the door of the bread oven and is pleased to see her pastry is browning well.

"Industrious," Rumplestiltskin observes over her shoulder and Belle jumps a little at his proximity, loses her grip on her cloth and brushes her hand against the little metal door, just long enough to hurt. She exclaims in frustration as much as pain, pulls away from the door, and Rumplestiltskin reaches to take her hand, tuts at the small red mark.

"It's nothing," Belle says, and Rumplestiltskin shakes his head. "It doesn't even hurt," she adds, but Rumplestiltskin lifts her hand to his mouth, kisses the burn; when he releases her hand the redness is gone and the tightness of her skin has eased. "Thank you," she murmurs, and he smiles slightly, steps away.

"You're terribly accident-prone," he says. "I shudder to think how you'd manage without my magic."

He's trying, Belle understands at once, trying to breach the distance that's grown between them over the past few days. Whatever reason he's had for his silence, his horrible watchful silence, he's breaking it now, and she's glad.

"I managed before we married," she reminds him, and she turns back to the oven, uses the cloth to draw out the tray upon which she's baked the pie. "Still room remedies may not be as effective as your magic," she adds, "but they work well enough."

"I suppose," he says, and he steps away, allows her the space to take the pie to the kitchen table. He follows her, reaches out a hand to poke at the pie; Belle swats him away, only realising what she's done when he dances back a pace, teeth bared in a grin of amusement at her boldness. She fights a blush, refusing to be ashamed or afraid, and meets his gaze. But there's no offence, no anger, as Rumplestiltskin pointedly clasps his hands behind his back. He's simply amused.

"It'll be too hot," she says, excusing herself a little, and she goes to fetch plates and a knife. "Besides, the tea's not ready yet."

"Quite the domestic housewife," Rumplestiltskin observes. "I trust the books are helping?"

"Can't you taste the difference?" Belle asks teasingly, and he gives a high laugh, goes to sit at his usual place at the table.

"Not quite," he says. "But then you haven't ever burned any food, so I suppose that's something." He watches her as she moves around the kitchen, and the weight of it prickles down her spine, but not uncomfortably. "I must go away later," he says when the kettle's boiled and she's reaching for it. Belle is still for a moment, contemplating that, and then she swings the kettle off the fire.

"Alright," she says quietly. She pours water into the teapot, takes the cups off the shelf – the chipped cup for him, always, for he seems to have some strange attachment to it – and takes the tea things to the table. "Will you be gone long?" she asks, and hopes her voice is steadier than it sounds to her own ears. She doesn't want to be alone in the castle; last time he was away her loneliness had eaten at her terribly. He's been poor company most of the time since her arrival here as his wife, but he's company nonetheless.

She doesn't want him to go; at least not when he's been so cold, so distant. That one day when he'd acted so much warmer, so much more agreeable, has been poor comfort since then. She's wondered if she made some mistake, if by giving him truthful answers she's disappointed him somehow.

She's wondered if he thinks her too brazen, too forward – but then, he was the one to kiss her so deeply. She'd only intended to touch his mouth with hers, and it had been he that…

She pulls her thoughts away from those things, finds him watching her with narrowed eyes, lips pressed in a thin line.

"Only a day," he says at last, as Belle takes her seat. "It won't be complicated. You'll hardly have time to miss me, dearie."

"I shall miss you," Belle says, and it's a little impulsive but then she knows he wants to hear it, knows how he'll react – and indeed, before he has time to school his expression, she sees the pleasure he feels at her admission. "And," she goes on, "I shall try my best not to injure myself before you return."

His laugh is a quiet chuckle, and he accepts the cup she passes to him. "Good," he says. "I never expected such an accident-prone wife."

"What did you expect, then?" Belle asks, and she laughs. "You didn't expect obedience, or thoughtfulness, or a wife who would cook or clean. Your expectations sound rather low, Rumplestiltskin."

"Perhaps they were." He's thoughtful as he looks at her, and he taps the table with one finger almost idly. "My experience of noble ladies has not given rise to greater expectations. You are…unique."

It's a rare compliment and Belle isn't quite sure how to take it; she stares at him for a long moment, and if he were a normal man she'd almost think he's blushing. But he's not a normal man, and his colour is unchanged. Still, there's something of embarrassment in the way he shifts ever so slightly in his chair.

"Thank you," she says at last, and cuts into the pie. It's well-cooked, and when she breaks the crust the smell of cooked apple fills her nose, making her mouth water. Rumplestiltskin seems hungry too, leaning forwards slightly and eagerly taking the plate she offers him.

"Good," he pronounces when he's tasted it. "The books were not a waste, then."

"Books aren't ever a waste," Belle says, tucking into her own slice of pie. "I've always loved reading. There was never enough time for it, even before the war came close."

Rumplestiltskin smiles unexpectedly, his eyes alight with some unknown pleasure. "You've not found the library," he surmises, and Belle looks at him with wide eyes.

"There's a library?" she asks, and he nods, sips his tea. "Where? I haven't been everywhere, it's true, but I thought I'd been all over the ground floor at least."

"It's in the east wing," he tells her. "On the first floor. I imagine it's as dusty as the rest of the place, but you may go there, if you wish." He gives her a small, tight smile. "The door will be open," he says, and she knows he is thinking of four days past, when she'd entered a room that should have been locked to her.

"Thank you," she says, hoping to curtail that train of thought. "I suspect you'll find me there when you return." She offers a wide smile, sees his tightness ease into bemusement. "My father always said I had to be dragged away from books," she tells him. "We didn't have many, but I read them all."

"The library is extensive," says Rumplestiltskin. "I'm sure you'll find something you'll enjoy there." There's something of satisfaction in the way he looks at her, as if he's happy he's found some new way to please her. Belle finds it a little odd after the last few days, but then he is odd, he's so changeable and his moods can alter so quickly. He can turn from offended to pleased, happy to melancholy, and in three weeks she's scarcely begun to understand what might cause any one of the changes.

Rumplestiltskin finishes his tea then, leaves his pie unfinished. "I must go," he says. "I will return by supper tomorrow." He rises, and Belle drains her cup and stands up as well. "Remember," he says, dark and a little vicious now, "do not leave the grounds."

Belle draws herself up tall, clings to her dignity. "You don't have to keep reminding me," she tells him. "I gave my word." Poor expectations, she thinks, and wonders at the kind of noble women he must have met, for him to still believe that she intends to run at the earliest opportunity. She's spoken of duty to him, had thought she'd made it plain that she considers it her duty to stay here, for her people as well as for the promise she'd made when she agreed to marry him. She's his wife now; her place is here. Her duty is here. She'd thought he was beginning to understand that.

"So you did," he says with a dark smile. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, my lady." He rounds the table, takes her hand and lifts it to his mouth, presses a kiss to her knuckles. Belle tries to be stubborn, to cling to her disappointment, but the gesture is charming and, as she's sure he intended, she's charmed in response.

"Tomorrow," she says. "I promise I won't burn the castle down in the meantime." He barks a laugh, and Belle smiles. She expects him to release her hand then, but instead he gives her a strange look, head partly turned away from her so he's almost looking at her sidelong. Then he tugs her closer, rests his other hand on her hip and kisses her.

It's not deep, not passionate the way the last kiss was, but neither is it simply a chaste meeting of lips, and Belle lifts her hands to his shoulders, balances herself against him when she begins to feel dizzy from it, from the feel of his mouth on hers and from lack of air and from the heat spreading through her whole body.

Rumplestiltskin pulls his mouth away from hers, and the lines of his face are soft as he gazes at her.

"Forgive me," he murmurs. "I find I can't resist."

"I – I don't think I mind," Belle says, a little breathless, and he exhales, long and slow. Belle slides her hands from his shoulders; he releases her, takes a step back. She can't work out what she's feeling, except she feels the loss of his touch, wishes he would come back and kiss her again.

She _desires_ him, she realises with a shock. This strange being, this creature who'd married her to seal a deal, this powerful man – she _desires_ him. She's seen men she's liked well enough before, can remember various of her friends giggling over boys or men, but she's never felt like this. A heat in her stomach, a wanting to be kissed again, to be held in his arms. To feel his hands upon her.

"Til tomorrow, my lady," Rumplestiltskin says, and if he guesses any of her thoughts, he doesn't show it. He bows, deeply and with a flourish of his hands that makes Belle want to giggle, and then he leaves the kitchen, leaves Belle alone to contemplate her revelation.

* * *

Halfway through, excludng the epilogue. Woohoo! I just want to say I'm really stunned by everyone's reactions to this, and I'm so pleased you're enjoying it :)


	21. Chapter 21

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle reads her letters before she ventures in search of the library, sitting beside the kitchen fire with a kitten in her lap. She's glad of the comfort of the small creature, for although she's thankful to have the letters, simply seeing her father's handwriting again brings unexpected pangs of homesickness.

Maurice's letter is longer than her own to him had been; he writes first of his gratitude that she has been able to write, and his hope that they can continue to communicate this way. Then, for her father knows her well, he writes of their village and the people in it. He tells her of the repairs they're doing, the soldiers who are returning now their lands are safe, the recovery of those wounded who she had tended before her departure.

And then, because he is her father and she is all the family he has left and he wants to know she is safe and well, Maurice asks things that Belle knows she can never answer. He asks if her new home is comfortable, if she is managing as mistress of her own home. He asks if she thinks there is any way he might be allowed to visit her. He asks, in careful, guarded language, if she is healthy and unharmed.

Questions Belle cannot possibly answer truthfully, for the most part. She cannot tell her father anything of her new home, by Rumplestiltskin's edict, and she can't tell him that magic replaces all need for the skills of managing a house. Visiting, she suspects, is something that will never be allowed; Rumplestiltskin so clearly does not even wish her to speak with the people in the nearby town. She thinks he'll continue to allow letters, but she doubts she'll ever see her father again.

Belle has to put the letter down then, spends a few minutes fighting tears, cuddling the little tabby cat in her lap. She's known since coming here that the chances are high she'll never see her father again, but somehow it's never seemed real. Somehow it's been something she can ignore, push to the back of her mind and forget about. Now, with pages filled with his neat cursive, she can no longer ignore it.

At length she manages to finish the letter. There isn't much more of it; the final paragraphs are mostly concerned with Maurice conveying how much he misses her, and how proud he is of her. That fortifies her a little, the memory of why she's here and why she mustn't dwell on not being able to see him. He is proud of her, and letters must suffice.

Laura's letter is a little easier to bear, although Belle's friend is less circumspect than her father in her enquiries about Belle's new life and circumstances. Much of the letter is occupied with stories of things her children have done, trivial tales that Belle knows are intended to lighten her heart. It works, and Belle smiles over the letter, finds herself thinking once again of how different her own life will be when children come.

If children come. Because although they've kissed, Belle remembers Rumplestiltskin's declaration, knows he won't come to her bed yet, if at all.

She rolls the letters up again, dislodges the kitten from her lap and goes to put the scrolls safely in her bedroom. She'll write replies to them both but she can't send them without Rumplestiltskin, so she sees no need to hurry to write letters today. Besides, she feels she needs some hard work before she can settle to something sedentary, feels the need for exercise of some description, and she imagines cleaning the library will provide plenty of that.

The library isn't hard to find, now she knows where it is, and it is indeed as dusty as the rest of the castle – if not more so. Belle's only been in there a minute before she sneezes from it, and she leaves again, goes to fetch her broom and a bucketful of rags. She returns determined to at least make a start on cleaning the room, although she can already tell that it will take more than a few days. The floor is covered in a carpet of dust nearly an inch thick, the shelves are all so smothered with it that she can't even read the titles of the books, and the windows are so dirty she can't see through them.

But despite this, Belle's excitement is unbounded. Her father's library had been small and mostly practical, full of farming almanacs and historical volumes on trade agreements and the histories of the noble families of the land. There had been a few novels, mostly collected by Belle's mother but some purchased for Belle – those she'd brought with her when she came here as Rumplestiltskin's bride.

This library is enormous, occupying what looks like two floors of the east wing; the ceiling is high above her, and a balcony runs around the walls halfway up. The walls themselves are simply panelled with books, from floor right up to the ceiling, and ladders are dotted about the room here and there to make even the highest books accessible. Only one wall escapes being covered in books – and that wall has two large windows, large enough to shed plenty of light for reading, if they were clean enough.

There are several armchairs in the room as well, and a table, perfect for sitting and reading in but just as dusty as the rest of the room. Belle's not entirely certain how she'll be able to clean the fabric, but she leaves that for later. She thinks perhaps there may be instructions in one of the housewifery books Rumplestiltskin gave her, but there's so much dust in here that it seems pointless to begin with the chairs.

She opens one of the windows, hoping that the wind will clear the air a little and keep her from sneezing. It's cold outside, but it's not snowing, and Belle warms up quickly enough once she's cleaning. She starts with the floor, even though she knows she'll have to sweep it again; she doesn't want her skirts to get any dustier than necessary, and kneeling on the floor as it is would mean her dress wouldn't be fit to wear again tomorrow.

Floor swept, she begins with the shelves closest to the door, lowest shelves first. It's mindless work in many ways – she takes all the books from one shelf, cleans the shelf thoroughly and dusts the spine and top of each book before putting it back in its place. The books seems organised, which is something to be grateful for, but even the books cannot long keep Belle's thoughts from Rumplestiltskin.

He desires her; that much is plain. Similarly it's plain he's curtailing that desire out of respect for her, respect for what he assumes is her unwillingness. As she'd hoped before she came here, Rumplestiltskin does respect her – at least as much as he respects anybody. It's something she should be pleased with, and she _is_, but she has a feeling his respect for her perceived unwillingness will extend long after any last trace of such reticence has faded from her.

For she was never exactly unwilling, not in the sense Rumplestiltskin has assumed. She came prepared to do her duty, to be his wife in all the meanings of that word, and although she'd been nervous, scared even, she'd never even thought about what would happen if she said no to him. And although familiarity has bred in her an appreciation of his appearance, she has never thought him unsightly. He's never disgusted her, as he seems to presume.

He thinks himself disgusting, a monster, ugly. That, she thinks, is why there are no mirrors here in the castle. He has no wish to look at himself, and he assumes she has no wish to look at him either. That's why he didn't believe her, when she'd told him she liked sharing meals with him. He simply cannot understand that she…that she likes him.

It makes her feel horribly sad for him, that he can't begin to comprehend that she wishes to be his wife in all the ways she can. To share his meals, and care for him, and learn what he likes and what makes him happy. Perhaps it's not unexpected, his lack of understanding, given how their marriage started, but Belle is determined to make this work.

Determined not only for the sake of those she's saved, but for herself as well.

Belle sighs, wipes her forehead with a dusty hand. There's very little point thinking about it, with him gone for a day. No matter what she thinks, she can't change him – won't try to change him – and until he changes his own mind, sees what he's refusing to see, nothing will alter between them.

She finishes the last shelf she can reach whilst kneeling, and rises to continue. The books here all seem to be reference books, great tomes of history with titles that seem designed to put off the casual reader. Some of the titles are written in a language she doesn't know, with strange angled letters in place of the familiar common alphabet. Belle wonders if Rumplestiltskin can speak this language, spends a moment rueing her education that had tended towards things both more and less useful than languages.

She sometimes feels so very small, so very uneducated, compared to Rumplestiltskin.

Belle dusts as many shelves as she can manage before the light goes, which seems a lot until she stands and looks around the room once more, remembers just how many shelves there _are_ in the library. She's barely scratched the surface.

But it's already growing dark, even though it can't be late in the afternoon, and whilst Belle could light the candles set irregularly around the room in elegant freestanding candelabra, she has other things to do this evening. She has letters to write, supper to cook, and she's sorely in need of a bath as well.

She closes the window, latches it firmly, and leaves the library. The kitchen is bright and warm when she reaches it, welcoming in a way so few rooms are in the Dark Castle. This, like her own rooms upstairs, has become hers in a way no other place has. Rumplestiltskin has allowed her dominion here, although he ventures here often and willingly, but it's not as formal as they sometimes become in the great hall. It's homelier, and Belle likes that.

The kittens are waiting for her, all three of them mewling for food, and she feeds them before she thinks about feeding herself, milk in a bowl and a little meat on a plate beside the fire. The cats in her father's castle had mostly fed themselves, but these are kittens, too young yet to hunt – and besides, Belle reflects, she's seen no rodents anywhere in the castle. Not even droppings, and she assumes that Rumplestiltskin's magic is guard against the pests that bother every other household in the land.

There's bread left in the pantry from her day's baking, and plenty of apple pie, and Belle's back is aching a little from cleaning the library so she has a simple supper, bread and cheese and then a generous helping of pie afterwards. She re-reads her letters while she eats, finds her father's letter a little easier to read now, and she contemplates what she will write in reply.

Then she has to venture out into the cold, for water to wash up the day's dishes, and although it's only a few paces to the pump, Belle's teeth are chattering and her hands stiff with cold by the time she closes the kitchen door again. She pours the bucket of water into the big kettle to heat over the fire, and then she rubs at her hands, trying to get them moving properly again.

She should have asked the castle for hot water for washing up, she reflects ruefully. In some respects she's grown very used to the castle's magic, taking for granted that it will do some jobs for her. In other ways she can't quite grasp it, doesn't always remember that she has only to ask and she will be provided with what she needs – or a task will be done for her.

She wonders how long it will take before she becomes so used to magic that she can no longer manage without it. It's an uncomfortable thought; she doesn't want to be reliant on anything, particularly something so unpredictable as magic. She's read too many stories, heard too many tales, of what happens when magic goes wrong. She doesn't want to end up so used to magic that she can't do anything herself, if that magic should fail.

When the water's warmed enough she takes the kettle and transfers the water into the sink, washes up as quickly as she can and then leaves the dishes to dry. The kittens have finished eating by now, are curled up in a post-meal nap in their basket, and she tucks her letters beside them before lifting the basket. It's perhaps silly, but she likes to have them sleeping in her sitting room, finds it a great comfort, and particularly on a night like tonight, when she is alone in the castle and the weight of the solitude presses in on her.

Once in her rooms, with the basket of kittens nestled beside the fire, Belle takes up her pen and begins to write letters to Laura and her father.

As before, Laura's is easiest to write. Her friend's letter has allowed her to ask questions about her children, about neighbours Belle knows, about friends they have in common. Ordinary things and ordinary people that Belle cares about still, despite knowing she will never see them again. She won't see Laura's children growing up, but she can ask after them, and enjoy Laura's stories, and it's a measure of normality in her life.

Laura knows her well, Belle thinks with a smile, knows that Belle wants and needs to hear these things. Needs it more than Laura knows, for Rumplestiltskin's edict means Belle can't get to know people in the town, can't involve herself in their lives the way she had always been able to before her marriage.

She writes, in guarded words, a little more about her life here than she had managed in her first letter. She tells Laura of her battle against the dust in the castle, of the kittens Rumplestiltskin has gifted her, of her determination to learn more cookery skills. Things that she hopes Rumplestiltskin would have no objection to, although she's careful in her wording, hesitates over every sentence to be sure she's not revealing anything that might make anyone ask questions about the Dark Castle.

In her letter to her father, Belle writes similarly of the things Maurice had written to her about – the people who have returned to the village, the repairs they are doing, the plans for the future. It's easier to speak of things that are distant, things that do not require her to guard her every word.

Still, she can't write nothing of her life, has to answer some of his questions, at least as far as she can. Carefully she writes that she is well, that she is healthy and unharmed, that she is safe in her new home. She adds, perhaps foolishly, that Rumplestiltskin has been courteous and generous to her. It's the truth, more or less, but she's not sure it will comfort her father.

At last the letters are finished; she leaves them on the table to dry, wipes her pen and puts her inkwell away in her little writing case. She's already learnt not to leave things out that could get tipped over and create a mess, when the kittens are in the room. She wishes she could write more, and perhaps it will become easier, perhaps she'll find things she can write about to both her father and Laura.

Perhaps. In the meantime, Belle is longing for a bath and then her bed, so she suits action to thought and goes through to her small bathing room.


	22. Chapter 22

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes in an uneasy mood, and the uneasiness stays with her all morning. She dresses and brushes her hair, opens the curtains in her bedroom and sitting room, stands for long minutes staring out at the snow-covered land. She makes breakfast for herself, porridge and tea, and can't shake the feeling that there's something else she ought to be doing. She chops vegetables to make a stew for her lunch and supper, and something _nags_ at her.

She'd planned to spend the day cleaning the library, but when her stew is simmering over the fire she stands in the kitchen, indecisive, perturbed. She wants to clean, but something feels…wrong, and that's the only word for it. It's not the quietness, the emptiness of the castle without Rumplestiltskin, for she's been alone here before and didn't feel like this then. It's like there's something in the back of her mind, something just beyond her reach, but it's important and it tugs at her thoughts. As if she has something to do, but can't remember what.

At last she puts on her cloak and mittens and ventures out into the snow. It's raining lightly, enough to have started thawing the snow a little, thawing the hard ice that's formed with frosts over the past few days. It makes it easier to walk, and safer, and she doesn't feel at risk of falling as she has so many times since it snowed when she's had to venture outside.

She has no destination in mind; she wanders in a somewhat aimless fashion through the quiet of the snow-covered grounds, and only realises where her steps are taking her when she reaches the avenue of trees that line the driveway. Belle pauses then, up to her calves in snow, cold and alone and a little scared, for she hadn't meant to come here – and somehow she cannot seem to turn herself around, to retreat, to trace her footsteps back towards the castle.

She can't do it; she is drawn onwards, towards the gate.

When she arrives, Edith is waiting for her, wrapped up well against the cold and leaning on her stick. Belle remembers what Rumplestiltskin had said, how disparagingly he'd spoken of Edith's little power, and wonders.

Edith's not alone, she sees then – there's a young woman with her, Belle's age or thereabouts, and she's holding a basket and hanging back, as if she's scared.

Of course she's scared; she has come to Rumplestiltskin's castle. Belle hates remembering that people fear him, because that reminds her of her own fear when she's trying so hard to move past fear into acceptance, into trust and loyalty and caring. The things any man has a right to expect from his wife.

"My apologies for calling you out on such a day, mistress," says Edith, and Belle doesn't know her, has nothing to judge her by, but she can tell Edith is anything but sorry. She's almost gleeful in fact, as if pleased her spell has worked – for it must have been a spell, to call Belle from the castle and bring her here. "But I thought, with him gone, we'd stand a better chance of speaking."

Belle takes a step closer to the gates, wraps her cloak tighter around herself. She should not be here. Rumplestiltskin had told her not to come near here again, and she'd had no intention of disobeying him.

She thinks he will be angry, when he discovers this. When she tells him what's happened, for she doesn't think for a moment that she can conceal it from him. Better to tell him as soon as he arrives home, she thinks, than to wait. If she tells him at once, explains as best she can the feeling, the compulsion, that has driven her here, he might understand. He might not blame her.

"What do you want?" she asks at last. "I should not be here. You shouldn't have done that, Mistress Edith." Edith grins, toothy and amused, and Belle tries to be dignified in the face of that amusement. She's had enough practice by now with Rumplestiltskin to be used to it, to remaining graceful despite it. "Please," says Belle, "you must leave."

"She's something for you," says Edith in reply, jerking her head at the woman behind her. "News of your arrival has spread, mistress."

Belle bites her lip for a moment, looks beyond Edith to the other woman. Barely more than a girl, she sees then, younger than she'd thought initially, and so frightened.

Belle wonders how Edith has cajoled her into coming, if Edith has placed a spell upon this girl as well. Certainly the girl is terrified enough that Belle can't see how she's willingly come here.

The townspeople are well-paid, she remembers, for their food and for their distance. She can well imagine that this girl is terrified of retribution for breaking Rumplestiltskin's edict. For it is his edict, as much as any decree by any knight in a castle anywhere across the land. He may have strange ideas about the duties and responsibilities of the lord of the manor, but she thinks he may take advantage of its privileges nonetheless.

Or perhaps it's simply his reputation he's taking advantage of – the reputation of Rumplestiltskin the deal-spinner. Rumplestiltskin the dangerous.

"Hello," she says at last, and the girl bends low in a curtsey, an obeisance far beyond what Belle has a right to expect from her rank. "Oh, please," she says, and steps closer, reaches out a hand to clasp the bars of the gates. But then she springs back with a cry; the gates have burned her hand, even through her mitten, and Belle stares at the metal, aghast.

Rumplestiltskin had warned her not to try the gates; had warned her of the consequences. He'd warned her that he wouldn't be here to – what was it he'd said, last time he'd gone away? He wouldn't be here to put her together afterwards, if she tried to leave.

Belle fights tears, feels them stinging hot in her eyes, and chooses to believe it's from the pain in her hand, the hot tightness that tells her the burn will need treatment. She chooses to believe it's not because Rumplestiltskin has hurt her again, even though she hasn't tried to leave.

She refuses to cry in front of Edith, who's watching her with a thoughtful, canny look. Belle forces a smile, looks past Edith once more to the girl standing with the basket.

"Please don't bow like that to me," she says gently. "I'm not royalty, you know. My name is Belle."

"Yes, my lady," says the girl in some confusion. "I mean – no, my lady, I won't." She straightens, glances around as if she's afraid Rumplestiltskin will leap out from behind a snowdrift and castigate her for not showing proper respect to his wife.

"He's not here, child," says Edith, cackling. "Don't be so scared. Mistress Belle's not going to harm you."

Belle doesn't like that Edith uses her name so freely, that she makes assumptions about her like that, even though of course she wouldn't dream of hurting anybody. She doesn't like Edith at all, if she's honest, finds her odd, strange in her fearlessness. But she smiles at the other girl, nods her head.

"Of course I won't hurt you," she says. "What's your name?"

"Mary, my lady," the girl says, and she dips another curtsey, not so deep this time.

"Mary," Belle repeats, and she keeps smiling, tries to show Mary that there's no reason to fear her. "It's lovely to meet you, Mary." She gestures, with her uninjured hand, at the basket Mary's carrying. "Is that for me?"

"Yes, my lady," says Mary, and she smiles suddenly, transforming her face from something quite plain and ordinary into something much prettier, almost beautiful. "Mistress Edith told us all you'd come," she goes on, while Belle is staring. "We – we thought…" She trails off, perhaps too nervous to continue, and Belle tries to reassure her.

"He's not here right now," she says. She wants to say that she wouldn't let Rumplestiltskin hurt Mary, but she can't make that promise. She can try, of course, if Rumplestiltskin decides to punish Mary for her daring, but she can't – she _won't_ – make a promise if she doesn't know that she can keep it.

She can't promise that Mary will be safe, although she'll do her best to make sure of it. She thinks of Rumplestiltskin, of his terrible anger and the things he's capable of, and then she pushes those thoughts aside.

"He's not here," she repeats. "He's away. What is it you thought, Mary?"

"That we should welcome you," Mary says in a rush. "That you might – might need some comforts." She thrusts out the basket with both hands, holds it out as if Belle could reach out and take it; she can't, for the bars stand hard and cold between her and Mary, and her hand burns from touching the gate. Belle can't reach and take the basket, doesn't even dare try to reach her hand through the bars.

"That's very thoughtful of you," she says. "But I…I can't open the gate." Edith's looking at her, all knowing amusement, but Belle ignores her. She can't open the gate, and if Edith thinks it's solely magic preventing her from doing so, perhaps that's so much the better.

"Oh." Mary looks disappointed, glances at Edith as if she expects the old woman to solve the problem. "Alright, my lady," she says after a moment. "I'm – I'm so sorry to be a bother."

"You're not a bother," Belle says at once. "I'm just not sure…" She trails off, frowns up at the gates. The bars are wide enough that Mary could pass things through to her – not the basket, but perhaps some of the things in it, if they're not large. "Can you pass the things through the bars?" she asks Mary. She doesn't dare touch the gates herself, but she doesn't think the magic on the gates will harm Mary. "Then," she adds with a smile, "perhaps you can throw the basket over so I can carry them up to the castle."

"Oh!" says Mary, brightening again. "Yes, of course, my lady." She comes closer, right up to the gates, and she hooks her basket over one arm and starts passing things through to Belle. The magic on the gates, as Belle had suspected, doesn't seem to affect her at all, and nor does it have any effect on the packages that Mary passes through the bars.

There are a number of parcels and items, some small and some a little larger but all of a size that they can fit between the bars. Some are wrapped, in cloths both coarse and fine; there are several jars, unlabelled but Belle can tell some contain preserves whilst others are remedies of the kind she'd made in her father's castle, simple homemade treatments for common ailments.

It warms her heart, to be given these things, to be welcomed – for although it's not much, although Mary is terrified at being brought here, Belle feels it's a warm welcome nonetheless. It's as warm as they can manage, she's sure, given what Rumplestiltskin's said about making them keep their distance from the castle. Small, homely things that will make her remember, when she uses them, that she is not entirely alone here.

"Alright," she says, when all the parcels are within the grounds and she's piled them up neatly in the snow, "can you throw the basket over now?"

"Go back a bit," Edith advises, and Mary nods, obeys unquestioningly in a way that makes Belle think she's used to it. Perhaps Mary is related to Edith somehow, a grand-daughter or a great-niece. She doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to speak to Edith more than she has to, and she thinks Edith knows it from the toothy grin she shows. Belle looks away from her, to Mary, who's preparing to throw the basket. She heaves it up and Belle watches, smiles widely when it easily clears the gate and lands some feet away from her.

"Oh, well done!" she calls. "I don't think I could have done it first time." She goes to collect it, packs all the gifts into it once more. Then she straightens, turns back to the two women beyond the gate. "Thank you," she says to Mary. "Truly."

Mary beams, dips a curtsey. "You're welcome, my lady," she says. "We – we hope you'll be pleased. And that – that he –" She can't continue, her smile fading, and Belle nods.

"I will tell him how grateful I am for your kindness," she says gravely. Edith laughs, a harsh, barking sound, and Belle exhales, frowns at her. "Mistress," she says, "why do you laugh? Do you disbelieve me?"

"Nay, mistress," Edith says. "But I disbelieve that it will count for much." She waves her hand at Mary, lifts her stick and thumps it down into the snow. "Come, Mary," she says. "Time we were off." She inclines her head at Belle, but there's no respect in the gesture, no graciousness. It's mocking, just as Rumplestiltskin is sometimes, but where she's learning to see past it when Rumplestiltskin mocks her, with Edith it makes Belle's skin crawl.

"Goodbye, Mary," she says. "Thank you, once again."

She watches as the two women turn and begin to make their way down the road, and then she turns and retraces her steps. Along the driveway, across the lawn, up through the kitchen yard where the ground is still treacherously icy. And then into the kitchen, where the fire is roaring and a kettle of boiling water is waiting for her.

Belle puts the basket onto the table, makes herself a cup of chamomile tea – not easy, for the burn on her hand is right across her palm, making it hard for her to grip anything – and then she sits down and explores the things she's been given. Preserves of various kinds, and the remedies she'd seen before, but she unpacks the wrapped parcels now, unties string and opens up cloth to reveal a variety of things. There are sewing things, needles and fine silk thread wound on bobbins. Ribbons for her hair, and a comb, wrapped together in one of the finer cloths. Another package contains sweets, toffees and fudge and crystallised fruits.

Trifles, mostly, and yet Belle can see the care that's been taken over the choosing of these things, the making and the wrapping of them. The townspeople truly wish to welcome her, even though they'd only had Edith's word that she was here, even though they've never seen her.

Even though she is Rumplestiltskin's wife.

It warms her, but she knows she will have to be careful when she speaks to Rumplestiltskin about it. She'll tell him at once, of course, about everything that happened, and she will tell him how grateful she is for these things. She'll say…

She's not sure what she'll say. Belle is not a woman who is given to begging, no matter that she started this marriage by begging him for help, and she can't beg him to spare the town, to spare Mary, if he is as displeased as she fears he will be.

Belle finishes her tea and sorts through the things, packing away into the basket those that will find a home upstairs in her rooms, leaving on the table the things that can go into the larder or storerooms.

Then she fetches her cleaning supplies and goes to continue her battle against the dust in the library.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle is reading when he returns, curled up in the armchair by the fire in her sitting room. She's left the door open and when she hears his light, quick step in the corridor she sets her book aside, looks up with an expectant smile.

Rumplestiltskin appears in the doorway, braces himself against the doorframe and leans in. There's pleasure on his face, open and unconcealed, and she thinks – she hopes – he's pleased to find her so eager to see him.

"Come in," she says, before he can ask permission, and he enters, moves in dancing steps to the chair he'd sat in before when she'd invited him in. "I'm glad you're back," she adds, and folds her hands together in her lap, tries not to see the way he looks at her. She hides her burnt hand, the hand that bears her wedding ring, beneath the other; she will, of course, tell him what happened, but she wants to tell him as carefully as possible.

"I was scarcely gone long enough to be missed," Rumplestiltskin says, and it would be dismissive except for the slight hesitation before he speaks, and the way his words come a little too quick, a little too practiced. He likes that she missed him, likes that she's glad he's back – and, Belle judges, he likes that she says so.

"Long enough," she says. She doesn't ask how his business went, not sure she wants to hear. She doesn't think he'll speak of whatever deal he's made, for he didn't last time he left her, but she doesn't want to hear if things went to his satisfaction. It would mean knowing that some poor, unfortunate soul has been driven to desperation and will find out, sooner or later, that deals with Rumplestiltskin always go in his favour.

Belle takes a breath then, straightens a little; Rumplestiltskin watches her with a faint frown, gestures with a flourish of fingers for her to speak.

"Well, dearie?" he asks, and although his tone is gentler than it might be, there's an edge to it, a hint of impatience. "What is it?"

She can't look at him, drops her gaze to her hands, keeps her burned palm downwards in her lap. She must tell him, and must do it now, but it won't be easy, and she hopes desperately that he won't be angry with her for what happened.

The words fall slowly, haltingly, from her lips, but she manages to tell him what had happened. That she'd been called from the castle against her will, that she'd had no choice but to obey whatever magic Edith had used, and that she'd only been released from it when she reached the gates. He's silent while she speaks, and she glances up once, finds him leaning back in the chair, eyes fixed upon her with something fierce lurking behind his blank expression.

She tells him of Mary and the gifts sent by the townspeople, and then she lapses into silence and waits for his judgement.

It doesn't come; instead he rises, crosses the space between them and kneels before her, takes her injured hand in his own. Belle flinches a little, can't help it, and Rumplestiltskin huffs a sigh.

"Some magic," he says, voice low and soft and oddly hypnotic, "works with intent. A spell can be crafted with parameters, guidelines…but intent can be key. Not in all magic, but in some." Belle nods but she's confused, not sure why he's saying this and not sure she understands exactly what he means. Rumplestiltskin's eyes glitter in the firelight as he looks up at her. "Intent _matters _in my magic," he tells her. "My intent…was perhaps less honourable than it should have been."

She frowns, bites her lip for a moment. "I don't understand," she says cautiously. "You told me not to leave the grounds, not to go near the gates – your intent was clear."

"I intended to keep you caged here like just another of my treasures," says Rumplestiltskin, dark and low and dangerous, but he's not directing it at her; his touch, the way he holds her hand so gently between his own, tells her he's not angry with her. "Something beautiful to look at," he continues, "and to be guarded as I guard everything that is mine."

Belle wishes she could pull her hand from his, wishes she could retreat from him, but neither action is possible. She looks down at their hands together, the contrast between her pale skin and his darker tones. She remembers thinking, when she first saw him, that his skin was coloured like a toad's skin, but she thinks now he's more like the dragon whose skin he wears as a coat. A dragon hoarding his gold, his treasure.

"I assumed," says Rumplestiltskin, "that you would try to flee. And my intent in creating the spell was thus…flawed." He shakes his head slightly, bares his teeth. "Magic is not clever," he adds. "It's not something that can think or adapt without something to guide it. So when I assumed your only reason for being at the gates would be to flee, the magic accepted that. It could not distinguish any other motive."

Belle exhales slowly, watches as his fingers stroke across her hand. "I see," she says at last. "The spell couldn't tell my intent, then? Is that what you mean? It couldn't tell the difference between me running and me…simply touching the gates."

"Yes."

Belle considers that, watches as his fingers move across her palm, across the burned, reddened skin there. There's no dark smoke this time, no outward sign of the power he wields, but beneath his touch the burn heals. There's a slight tingling, perhaps, but nothing more. It's less ostentatious than some of his displays, Belle thinks, but no less powerful for that. She'd applied an ointment to the burn, but without magic it would have taken several weeks to fully heal, and she'd been certain it would leave a scar.

"Then you're not angry with me?" she asks then, and Rumplestiltskin sighs once more, lowers his head and kisses her palm.

"No," he murmurs. "Not at all, my lady. A compulsion is strong magic, and it would take someone far better versed in magical arts than you to fight one off." He lifts his head, the softness gone, a snarl on his mouth and his eyes fierce. "But Mistress Edith shall not lightly do such a thing to _my wife_," he snaps.

Belle inhales sharply, reaches out with her free hand, cups his cheek and strokes her thumb against his skin.

"Please," she says, a soft entreaty. "Please. I'm quite safe. I'm unharmed."

"No thanks to her," Rumplestiltskin snarls, but there's something still in him now, some of his anger easing slightly under her touch. Belle stores that knowledge away, the knowledge that she can soothe him at least a little.

"No thanks to her," she agrees. "But still, I am unharmed. And Mary – Mary was scared. She had no part in – in the compulsion." Compulsion, he calls it, and Belle thinks it's apt for what had happened to her earlier. She'd been compelled to go, and had not been able to fight it. But Mary had not been responsible for that, and if she cannot persuade him to spare Edith, at least she can ask for Mary's safety.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. His eyes close, and he turns his face a little into her hand. "She meant no harm, I suppose. Unlike that hedge witch." His anger rises once more and he pulls away from her, rises fluidly to his feet and paces away from her, goes to stare out of the window. Belle hasn't drawn the curtains yet, and in the darkness beyond the glass she can see snow falling once more.

She bites her lip for a moment, then rises and goes to join him. She stands beside him, keeping a careful distance between them, and looks out at the darkness, at the snow whirling through the air. She'd never imagined there could be so much snow; winter, she thinks, will last a long time.

"I don't mind if you want to protect me," she says at last. "But I'm not a treasure, Rumplestiltskin. I'm more than just one of your ornaments."

He makes a sound, not quite a laugh, but his amusement is obvious. "You've convinced me of that, my lady. No need to labour the point." He turns his head to look at her, and Belle glances at him, wary of what she might see. But his expression is thoughtful as he regards her, and Belle wonders what he sees.

"I don't mind staying here," she says impulsively. "In the castle grounds, I mean. If that's what you want. But I'm not an ornament, and I – I wish you could start to trust me, a little."

Rumplestiltskin breathes out, a long breath, and he turns away from her, looks back out of the window. "Trust," he says, "is not an easy thing to give."

Belle nods, and tries not to feel sad. For anyone trust might be hard, and for Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful being in all the land, she knows it must be harder still. She hasn't been here a month, yet – barely more than three weeks, in fact. It will take much longer to earn his trust, she knows that. And yet she wishes he could start.

They stand together at the window in silence. Belle watches the snow fall, feels the closeness of him and wonders at herself, wonders at her urge to reach out and take his hand.

"I shan't harm the girl," Rumplestiltskin says eventually, breaking the silence. "If it pleases you, my lady."

"Thank you," Belle answers. She doesn't look at him, keeps her gaze straight forward. "I should not like to think of her being punished when the gifts she brought gave me such joy." He hums a little, and she sees him nod out of the corner of her eye. Mary will be spared, and Belle's glad of it, for she knows she can't ask the same for Edith.

She can't ask for too much, and her husband is protective, something she'd never thought to find in him. He will not allow Edith, who had drawn Belle from the castle against her will, to go unpunished. Mary is a different matter, and Belle suspects it's more that the girl had no part in Edith's magic than that Belle has asked for her to be spared. Belle knows she has little enough influence on Rumplestiltskin; if he wanted to punish Mary, to visit retribution upon her for daring to come to the castle gates, Belle's quiet words in her favour would not stop him.

"I must find something to protect you against such magics," he murmurs, and it's clearly more to himself than to her, so Belle feels no need to answer. She clasps her hands in front of her, lets her mind go blank as she gazes, half-hypnotised, at the whirling snowstorm outside. She thinks of nothing for long moments while Rumplestiltskin thinks, and she's startled when Rumplestiltskin touches her shoulder and turns her towards him.

"A gift, my lady," he says liltingly. "For protection." He lifts his clenched hand, uncurls his fingers, reveals a pendant strung on a slender chain of gold. Belle smiles, as pleased by his intent as by the gift itself, and she lifts a hand to accept it. Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, gestures with his other hand for her to turn. "It must be worn to work," he says, warning her, and Belle turns obediently, lifts her hair out of his way and feels his fingers against her neck as he puts the chain about her neck and fastens the clasp.

He lingers when he's done, one hand on her shoulder and the other resting at her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin. Belle almost holds her breath; her hair falls from slack hands, and Rumplestiltskin hums, strokes it back into place. He combs his fingers through the thickness of it, and Belle closes her eyes, leans back just slightly – enough, she hopes, to encourage him. For he needs encouragement as much as she wants to show him that these soft touches are allowed, are welcomed even.

"I think," he murmurs, "that I like seeing you wear my gold."

Belle smiles a little, a secret smile that he can't see, standing behind her. "A possessive husband," she observes. "Would you adorn me with jewels like a princess? A symbol of your wealth?"

"Hardly," scoffs Rumplestiltskin. "I see no need for gaudy displays. And who would I be trying to impress, dearie?" His hands drop to her waist, pulling her towards him; he buries his face in her hair and inhales, and Belle feels the warmth of him pressed against her back. Rumplestiltskin, she thinks, has no need to impress anybody. There can be few who haven't heard stories of him, few who don't know how powerful he is. And those few would surely realise it within moments of meeting him, would surely realise that this is a being who has no need for displays of wealth or power.

No need for displays, but she thinks he likes showing off, for her if not for others. She's seen it, over the past days and weeks, seen his displays of power that might seem casual but for the satisfaction he seems to gain from her awe – and, sometimes, from her discomfort.

"I suppose," Rumplestiltskin says, lifting his face from her hair, "that you have little in the way of finery. Daughter of a poor border knight, hm?"

"I have a necklace that was my mother's," Belle answers slowly. "It's worth little except to me, I suppose. But I think any other jewels must have been sold long ago." She turns her head, cranes her neck to look at him, but he keeps her still, his hands firm at her waist. "I don't want finery," she says. "I don't need anything."

"Need isn't the same as want," Rumplestiltskin says mildly, and Belle purses her lips, hopes he won't do anything foolish. She can't stop him if he chooses to bring her jewels, of course, and she thinks she probably can't refuse if he _does_ choose to do so. He would, she's sure, take it the wrong way, take it as rejection of him, and that's the last thing on her mind. She simply doesn't _need_ any fine jewellery, and although he's right that need is not the same as want, she doesn't want anything either.

She has her mother's necklace, and her wedding ring that she's only just growing used to on her finger. Now she has the gold chain and pendant that he's given her for protection. Belle knows her worth; she does not need to be showered in jewels to feel valued. Not even here, with Rumplestiltskin.

And Rumplestiltskin does value her. She has exceeded his expectations, surprised him almost daily. She thinks he values that.

Rumplestiltskin's hands slide away from her; he steps back, and Belle turns to look at him, feels a nagging _loss_ at the lack of his touch.

"I'll say goodnight," he tells her. "I have much still to do this evening."

"Alright," says Belle, and tries not to show her disappointment. She wishes he'd spend more time with her, wishes he'd stay longer. It's odd; three weeks ago she would never have wished for such a thing. But she likes him, this odd husband of hers – and besides, she's still a little perturbed by Edith's compulsion, by the way she'd been drawn from the walls of the castle against her will.

But Belle had promised herself not to ask more of him than he's willing to give, so she doesn't ask him to stay.

"Goodnight, then," she offers, conscious of his gaze, the approval on his face as he glances down at the pendant that hangs from her neck. He reaches for her hand then, presses a kiss to her knuckles, and it makes her smile.

"Goodnight," he returns, and he holds her hand a moment longer than necessary, tilts his head and looks at her with an expression she can't decipher. "Goodnight," he repeats in a murmur. He releases her hand, leaves the room with quick, purposeful strides.

Belle shuts the door behind him and fingers the chain at her neck thoughtfully.


	24. Chapter 24

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle doesn't ask, when she sees him the next morning at breakfast, what Rumplestiltskin has done – or plans to do – about Edith. She refuses to think about it, steers the conversation away from the dangers of his retribution and onto more pleasant topics. The library, she tells him, is a task beyond anything she could have expected.

"I keep my own books in my work room," Rumplestiltskin informs her, piqued. "I've little need of anything else."

"And yet you keep those in the library." Belle smiles merrily, offers him a pot of jam to spread on his bread. "Perhaps you anticipated a wife who loves to read."

He snorts, shakes his head. "I never throw anything away," he says, and accepts the jam. "You never know when it's going to be useful."

"I can believe _that_," Belle says, her smile widening. "I don't think I could have imagined anyone could own so many things." Rumplestiltskin offers a smile but says nothing, and Belle sips her tea, regards him. Some of the things in the castle, some of the debris that's scattered throughout and piled high in many of the rooms, must have come from deals. Some things, she thinks, were probably here when he arrived to take possession of the castle. The library is so completely untouched, and she can't think that he has much use for the armoury.

"I'm going into the town today," Rumplestiltskin tells her then, leaning back in his chair, watching her with narrowed eyes and a thin smile. There's cruelty in his expression, enough to make a shiver run down her spine, but although she fears it, she doesn't think it's directed at her.

Edith, she thinks, and wonders why Rumplestiltskin is telling her this. He must know it isn't welcomed, surely he must know how she abhors the idea of punishing one who is so powerless beside the great Rumplestiltskin. He must know it.

"Come with me."

Belle's startled, almost loosens her grasp on the cup in her hand as she looks at him. "To the town?" she questions. Rumplestiltskin's smile becomes a smirk, he lifts one eyebrow. He says nothing, but his mocking is plain. Belle puts her cup down, folds her hands together in her lap. "I suppose," she says, controlling her voice so that it does not shake, does not reveal anything but composure, "that I have no choice in the matter."

Rumplestiltskin bares teeth in a grin. "Clever girl," he says. "If they wish to see my wife, who am I to refuse them?" He finishes the last bite of his bread, pushes his chair away from the table. "We leave in one hour," he tells her. "And no later. Don't keep me waiting, dearie."

Belle holds her head high and doesn't watch as he leaves the kitchen; only when he's gone does she lift a shaking hand to take her cup again. She finishes her tea, but leaves the rest of her breakfast. Her appetite is gone in the face of the malice her husband has cloaked himself in once more.

She'd thought she was beginning to learn who he is underneath, had thought he was _letting_ her see who he is beneath the prickly exterior. And then, she thinks, he becomes the deal-maker once more, reminds her exactly who it is she's married. He reminds her how dangerous he can be.

Belle does not want to go to town. She does not want to see whatever punishment he metes out to Edith, doesn't want to be displayed by her husband, doesn't want to be part of whatever power games he plays with the townspeople. Those frightened people who are paid to stay away.

But she has no choice; her husband requires it of her.

Belle doesn't bother washing up the breakfast things; she leaves the kitchen knowing the castle's magic will clean away the things she has no energy to clean now. She goes up to her rooms and spends long moments watching her kittens sleeping in a pile.

She remembers his pleasure at making her smile, at providing her with something of happiness by giving her these kittens. It's so hard to reconcile the two sides of him in her mind – the husband who wishes to please her, who is willing to learn kindness, and the deal-maker, the trickster, the most dangerous being in the world. The creature who takes pleasure in the misfortune of others.

It's hard, and Belle has to remind herself that she hasn't yet been here a month, that she has the rest of her life to learn him. The rest of her life, long years stretching out ahead of her.

And, she thinks, he is allowing her to leave the castle grounds. He will escort her to town, and she isn't fool enough to think she will be given freedom there, or the freedom to visit again without him by her side, but it's more than he'd allowed her when she first came.

An hour until they depart, and Belle knows better than to be tardy. Less than an hour now, for she's wasted time lost in her thoughts, so Belle hurries through to her bathing room, pours water from a jug into the wash basin and washes her face and hands.

She's dressed well enough, she thinks, so there's no need to change – very well dressed, in the first gown Rumplestiltskin had given her, so much finer than anything she's ever owned before. She won't let him down, she judges; in this dress, rich blues and creams, she'll appear every inch his lady. She'll be warm enough too, especially with her thick winter cloak. Warm enough not to shiver if they stand in the cold, although she doesn't quite think Rumplestiltskin would make her do that, even to watch his punishment of Edith.

He has been, after all, so solicitous of her health and well-being. So careful to make sure she is warm enough in these cold, snowy mountains.

She pulls her hair loose from its ribbon, brushes it thoroughly, and then for a moment considers what to do with it. Without a maid to help her, Belle usually just ties her hair away from her face and lets the mass of it fall loose behind her, but she is after all a married woman now, and she thinks Rumplestiltskin wants her to make an impression on the townspeople. She doesn't think she can pin it up alone though, even with the large collection of hairpins in her case.

In the end she plaits it and winds the plait into a knot at the base of her neck, and hopes it will be good enough. She brushes her dress free from stray hairs, checks that her necklace is securely fastened around her neck, and wishes once again for a mirror. She can only hope her hair is straight, that there are no marks on her dress that she's missed. But Rumplestiltskin will not hesitate to correct such things, she thinks with a smile that's only a little rueful. He has a plan for today, that much is clear, and she doesn't think he'd let the lack of a mirror spoil whatever it is he intends to do.

Belle thinks she looks presentable, and can do no more. She leaves her rooms, carefully shuts the door behind her so the kittens don't escape and get into mischief in her absence. Rumplestiltskin will be waiting for her in the entrance hall, but Belle goes to the kitchen first, to change her slippers for sturdy leather boots and to collect her cloak. She doesn't put the cloak on yet, for she has a suspicion that Rumplestiltskin will want to inspect her before they depart. She carries it over her arm and makes her way to the entrance hall.

Rumplestiltskin claps his hands when he sees her, sketches a bow. "My lady," he says. When he straightens there's something else in his gaze, something other than the gleeful malice she'd been expecting. Something desiring, something approving. Something that makes her blush and fidget her hands together.

"Rumplestiltskin," she says, and clears her throat. "Will I do?"

He lifts a hand, twirls his finger in the air, and Belle turns obediently, spins around so that her skirts flare out and swish nicely. Rumplestiltskin giggles, but when she looks at him the mirth fades, the satisfaction is gone. He looks at her with something more respectful, and Belle holds her breath for a moment.

"Will I do?" she repeats, and Rumplestiltskin nods his head, dances closer to her. Belle offers him her hand, and he takes it, kisses her knuckles as he likes to do.

"Very well, my lady," he murmurs. "Very well indeed." He keeps hold of her hand, and Belle licks her lips, lowers her gaze. She likes that he approves of her appearance, and almost despises herself for liking it. She's never been vain, never been one to preen before a mirror in the hopes of attracting male approval. She knows she's considered beautiful, knows her suitors – her former fiancé – had pursued her more for her beauty than for any of her other qualities. Beauty and alliances, for although her father is, as Rumplestiltskin had pointed out last night, a poor border knight, still she is a noble lady with a good lineage, and that is always desirable for other knights.

Beauty and good breeding, so she can provide well-bred heirs and beautiful daughters to continue forging alliances for her husband's estate. But Rumplestiltskin did not choose her for either of those. His reasons, she thinks, must have been more than simply her lack of desire for marriage, but certainly he has no need of alliances and hardly more need of a beautiful woman to show off. He has nobody to show her off to, no visitors to impress.

Except he will now show her off in the town, and she doesn't like that. She doesn't like the reminder that he intended her to be no more than one of his treasures.

He seems to sense the shift in her mood, for he drops her hand and takes a step back.

"Ready, dearie?" he asks, voice sliding high again, cloaking himself once more in the trickster's mantle. He's wearing his dragon-skin coat, high boots and dark clothing that all works together to make him look dark and grimly forbidding. Intentionally so, of course, and Belle wonders if anyone except her ever sees him in his coloured silk shirts, his high-necked waistcoats. She doubts it, somehow. Rumplestiltskin is a man who cultivates a specific image; it suits him well to be seen as dangerous.

He is dangerous, after all.

"I'm ready," she answers, and pulls her cloak on, fastens the clasp. Rumplestiltskin offers his arm, and Belle takes it, lets him lead her out of the great front doors of the castle. There's a carriage waiting on the driveway beyond – the driveway cleared of snow, Rumplestiltskin's great power capable of so many wonders – with two white horses, but no driver. Belle hasn't seen stables in her wanderings about the grounds, but the snow has prevented her from going far, and she bites back the questions she wants to ask, sure her husband isn't in a mood agreeable enough for answering her.

He helps her into the carriage, and Belle settles herself down on the comfortable bench as he climbs in after her. He closes the door, raps on the roof of the carriage, and they set off at a steady pace down the driveway that winds through the grounds towards the gates. Belle peers out of the window and sees the great gates swinging open at their approach, and hears them clanging shut against once the carriage is through.

"It's not far," Rumplestiltskin remarks then. He's slouched opposite her in the carriage, so low in the seat that their knees are knocking together. "You're warm enough?"

"Yes," Belle murmurs. "Thank you." She looks out of the window, at the passing scenery. Trees and snowdrifts and mountains, and the road they're travelling on. Like the driveway in the castle grounds, this has been cleared of snow. She wonders when he did it, how much effort it took him. She wonders if he clears the streets in the town, or whether he leaves the people there to fend for themselves.

She suspects the latter; he seems to care little enough for the town, for those in it who might otherwise expect to look to their lord for aid in times of hardship. Or perhaps they're used to the snow here, perhaps they clear it quickly and efficiently. If it snows like this every winter, she thinks they must have ways to ensure they can continue their lives unimpeded.

Belle pulls her attention from the unchanging scenery outside, looks at her husband. He seems not to be watching her, his gaze focused on something other, something elsewhere, but she suspects it's feigned. She thinks he's watching her without seeming to, and it makes her self-conscious. She lifts a hand to check that the plaited knot of her hair isn't falling down, even though she knows she'd have felt it if the pins had loosened.

"Nervous, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin asks, amusement lurking beneath his soft tones, and Belle straightens, drops her hand into her lap.

"Should I be?" she challenges. "I've no idea what to expect, you know."

"It's a town," says Rumplestiltskin with a shrug. "Much like any other." He scowls, deepening the lines of his face. "And you know where we're going, dearie. There's a lesson to be learnt today."

Belle's mouth is dry and she can't look at him. "Edith," she says, an acknowledgement in a shaking voice. Rumplestiltskin bares his teeth, grins at her – smiles at her discomfort, and she _hates_ that but can do nothing to stop it except work harder at concealing her abhorrence of what is to come.

He says nothing more, and Belle clasps her hands together in her lap, looks back through the window of the carriage. Before long buildings start to appear, at first dotted here and there, but before long the trees have given way to open expanses of snow-covered land, and the buildings begin to be clustered together more closely.

"Nearly there," says Rumplestiltskin, his voice rising and falling in an odd, lilting way. "Come back from the window, dearie. I'll have you as a surprise, if you don't mind."

Belle sighs, moves herself away from the window so she's sitting in the middle of the carriage seat. "I suspect it doesn't matter whether I mind or not," she says, and perhaps she's foolish to say it, because she knows her words came out rather harsher than she intended.

Rumplestiltskin straightens in his seat, leans towards her and there's a cruel twist to his mouth.

"Not in this," he tells her. "Don't try me, dearie." He leans back again, reclines once more, and Belle wraps her arms around herself, holds her cloak close. A defence, and a poor one, but it's all she has.

At last Rumplestiltskin lifts a hand and thumps on the carriage roof; the horses draw to a halt, and Belle takes a deep breath, tries to prepare for whatever will happen next. Rumplestiltskin looks at her, and she can't quite understand his expression, but she thinks perhaps there's something of regret in it.

"Are you ready, my lady?" he asks her, low and soft, deceptively so. Belle nods her head, not trusting herself to speak, and Rumplestiltskin barks a laugh. "Well, we'll see," he says. He reaches out to open the carriage door, steps out and holds a hand out to help her alight.

Belle takes the offered hand and carefully steps out of the carriage into the bright, cold sunshine.


	25. Chapter 25

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle's first impressions are confused, muddled from the fear and dread that's gripping her tightly. She sees houses and a long street stretching away to her right, the road muddy and icy, snow swept clear and the path below churned to hard ridges of mud that show where people have walked. There are people about, in the street and in the houses and cottages that line the road, peering through windows and hiding behind curtains.

Rumplestiltskin offers her his arm, and Belle takes it, keeps her eyes demurely lowered. He huffs a dark chuckle, and she glances up to see what's amused him.

"Stand tall, dearie," he advises her, in quiet tones so nobody else can hear him. "You've no betters here to bow your head to." Belle nods a little, tries to obey. She's his lady, she reminds himself, there is nobody more powerful than he, and she must try to be as he wishes her to be – in public, at least.

It's her duty. She can demand nothing less of herself.

He seems to ignore the people staring at them, leads her a few steps from the carriage to the closest cottage, a ramshackle affair at the end of the street. It seems to almost squat in a garden that, when there's no snow, must be simply overgrown with plants. The gate hangs from its hinges and squeaks loudly when Rumplestiltskin pushes it open. He doesn't bother close it behind them, and Belle clutches his arm a little tighter as he leads her up the path to the front door.

He glances down at her, a faint smirk twisting his mouth, but he says nothing, and Belle thinks in some ways he is acting a part now as much as she is.

The door springs open at his touch and he sweeps into the cottage, into the dark, cramped space, and Edith's waiting for them. She sits at her hearth, her hands busy knotting together bunches of dried herbs with twine. A basket rests by her feet, filled with more herbs; her livelihood, Belle deduces. A hedge witch, Rumplestiltskin had called her, and Belle supposes Edith sells herbs and simple potions, as well as small spells, to keep herself fed and housed.

Rumplestiltskin slams the door behind him, and Belle flinches a little, hides it as well as she can. Edith looks up at them, and Belle's not sure what she expected but she can see a trace of fear in the old woman's expression, in the tightness of her mouth and the slight shake in her hand.

Rumplestiltskin carefully – tenderly, almost – removes Belle's arm from his and steps towards Edith. Belle stands back, barely further into the room than the doorway, and watches as his shadow falls across the old woman, as Edith drops her bundles and looks up at him.

"You," says Rumplestiltskin, and the danger is clear, his voice low and practically dripping with malice, "owe my wife an apology."

"It's a rare thing brings you to town," Edith says, and she leans back in her chair, peers up at him. "I think I should feel honoured."

"I think," snaps Rumplestiltskin, "that you should apologise to _my wife_ at once, or you'll find your insolence will bring more misery than you could dream of."

"Threats, deal-maker?" Edith grins, baring gaps in her teeth, but it's all bravado, a mask she's wearing. If Belle can see it – Belle who has only met Edith twice – she knows Rumplestiltskin must be able to see through Edith's pretence to the fear beneath. "There's little enough you can do that I'm afraid of," Edith continues. "Death'll take me before long, I'm not sure I fear you hastening it."

"Then fear what I will do before you are taken," Rumplestiltskin says in a snarl. "You will _apologise_." He turns, gestures Belle to come forward, and Belle hides her pique at being summoned so by him – hides it because they are in public, not alone in his castle, and she _will_ be his dutiful wife, at least here. She takes three steps to reach his side, and he rests his hand on her shoulder, looks back at Edith with an expression that's maliciously hopeful.

He wants Edith to refuse, Belle realises. He wants her to continue this façade of boldness, so that he can do what he wishes in revenge for the spell Edith had placed upon her.

She wonders if it's because he cares for her, for the woman who is his wife, or whether it's simply that he takes joy in vindictiveness. If he's doing it because he wishes to protect her, and wishes to make it known that she is beyond reach, or because he likes such cruelty. If it's for care of her, she thinks she might be able to accept it a little better. But if any part of his motive is protectiveness, there is another part – perhaps the greater part – that's vicious and that wants Edith to refuse so he can…punish her.

But Edith does not oblige him; she looks up at Belle, and Belle looks back at her, stands tall and says nothing and waits.

"I – I apologise," Edith says at last, stuttering a little, and whatever she may claim, Belle knows she's afraid. "I beg your forgiveness, mistress."

Rumplestiltskin is still by Belle's side; he might as well be a statue for all he gives her when she glances at him, hoping to be guided in her response. But he keeps his gaze on Edith, and so Belle nods at the witch.

"I forgive you," she says, and her voice is steadier than she had hoped for. Rumplestiltskin exhales, almost a sigh, and she knows he's disappointed that the apology has been offered and accepted. But Belle could do nothing else but give her forgiveness to Edith, and it's been made easier by the chain around her neck, the pendant that hangs above the neckline of her gown. She is protected from such a thing happening again, and that makes it so much easier to accept the apology that Edith has been forced to make.

"You'd do well to remember, Mistress Edith, that you are here on my sufferance," Rumplestiltskin says then. His fingers are tight on Belle's shoulder – not painfully so, but enough for her to sense something of his anger, something of the restraint he is showing. "Do not trespass on my good will again."

Edith says nothing, and Rumplestiltskin seems to expect no answer; he drops his hand from Belle's shoulder, offers her his arm once more, and then escorts her from the cottage. He glances back through the doorway then, and his snarl is all glittering malice as he flicks his fingers at Edith. Belle tries not to flinch, but when she looks back at Edith she can see the woman trying to speak. Trying, for no sound comes from her mouth, not a cry or a word, and when Belle glances up at her husband she finds him pleased.

A punishment has been given, she understands at once, despite Edith's apology and Belle's acceptance of it. And though Edith's voice is gone, Belle knows it could have been so much worse. Perhaps the punishment has been eased by the apology offered and accepted. She daren't ask how long it will last, Edith's dumbness, and Rumplestiltskin gives her no time to dwell on it, draws her out into the brightness of the day. It's startling after the gloom of the cottage, and Belle has to trust Rumplestiltskin to guide her for long paces until her eyes clear.

She has to trust him, yet he has just been vindictive enough to punish Edith even after her apology had been accepted, and Belle isn't sure what it means that she _does_ trust him, despite that. She trusts him to make sure she doesn't stumble or trip, trusts him to protect her – trusts him despite the cruelty that's so much part of his nature.

"Now you have a choice," Rumplestiltskin murmurs, and pulls the gate open. "Home, my lady, or will you see a little of the town?"

Belle blinks away the last of her blindness, glances up at him. His eyes are focused elsewhere, and she follows his gaze to see people congregating further down the street, whispering to each other. A child points, and his arm is slapped down by a harried, worried woman. His mother, Belle supposes, frightened for her child. Rumplestiltskin frightens them; some of the stories, she remembers, talk of him demanding children in return for his magic.

She pushes that awful thought from her mind, and looks up at her husband.

"I don't wish to frighten anybody," she says softly. She can't help that they're frightened of Rumplestiltskin – they're right to be afraid – but she doesn't want anybody to be afraid of her. She hesitates, glances at the people watching them, watching her. Their new lady, for Rumplestiltskin is their lord, no matter how he might like to deny it. "I would like to stay," she says, cautious in her decision. "For a while?"

Rumplestiltskin inclines his head. "As you wish," he says. "Ah. The welcoming committee has arrived." He gestures, and Belle looks down the street to see a man approaching. Past middle-aged, his head bald beneath his hat, he looks nervous but resolute. He's well-dressed, better than most of the others Belle can see loitering in the street beyond him. She lets Rumplestiltskin guide her to meet him, watches as the man bows low.

"My lord," he greets, and then, "my lady." Belle's instinct is to curtsey in return to the man's courtesy, but she remembers what Rumplestiltskin had told her and does nothing more than incline her head.

"This," says Rumplestiltskin, sounding a trifle bored, "is Tobias Oldfellow. The mayor."

"Master Oldfellow," says Belle quietly. He straightens, but doesn't meet her gaze, keeps his eyes lowered respectfully.

"Please," he says, "allow me to welcome you to Northbridge."

"Some have already welcomed her," says Rumplestiltskin, voice lilting high, and Oldfellow glances up for a brief moment, fear visible in his eyes, before he returns his gaze to the ground.

"Yes," he says. "Forgive any impertinence, my lord. It was – the women meant it kindly."

"My wife was pleased," Rumplestiltskin shrugs. "So I suppose you're forgiven." His free hand flutters for a moment, and he looks down at Belle. "Oldfellow will give you a tour," he tells her. "I've business to attend to." She's startled, but tries her best not to show it, nods her head and says nothing. Rumplestiltskin's mouth curves into what might be called a smile, and he takes her hand from his arm, bows over it. "You'll be safe enough, my lady," he says. "I'll find you when I'm done."

"Thank you," Belle says. There's something in his expression that makes her think she shouldn't be thanking him, that makes her think this is more than kindness. A test, perhaps, and the thought is bitter. She doesn't want to think that he's testing her, by allowing her to wander the town without his supervision – although she's not fool enough to think he won't be watching her, somehow.

"Here," he says then, and a purse appears in his hand, a leather pouch heavy with coin. Belle takes it, loops the strap around her wrist and holds the pouch in her hand. "For whatever you desire," he tells her.

"Thank you," Belle says again. "I'll see you later, then," she adds, and Rumplestiltskin nods at her, casts a stern look at Oldfellow and then turns and strides away, past Edith's cottage, turning right and moving down another street.

Belle watches until he's gone from her sight, and then she turns to Oldfellow and tries to offer a pleasant smile.

"A tour would be lovely," she says. "If it's no trouble."

"Of course not, my lady," says Oldfellow. With Rumplestiltskin gone he seems a little more confident; although he doesn't meet her gaze, his head is held a little higher and some tension in him is eased. "My lord wishes it, so of course it's no trouble." Belle's smile feels brittle, and perhaps he can see it because he bows slightly to her, steps aside so she can walk beside him. "Perhaps the market," he suggests. "It's market day today, my lady."

"Yes," Belle says, and her voice sounds small and lost to her own ears, but she takes a breath, pulls herself together. "Yes, that sounds lovely, Master Oldfellow," she says. "Please, lead the way."

Oldfellow doesn't offer his arm, but he walks slowly enough that Belle needs no help to walk over the ruts and furrows of mud in the road. She lifts her skirts free of it, holds her head high even as they draw closer to the staring crowd. Oldfellow makes a gesture towards them with his hand, shakes his head, and slowly the people begin to disperse.

"They don't mean to be rude," he excuses to Belle. "But we – well, we don't often see my lord in town. And he's always alone."

"I understand," says Belle. "I take no offence, I assure you. It's only natural to be curious." She smiles a little easier now, as Oldfellow guides her around a corner and onto a main road, cobbled and clear of mud and snow both. "I confess to some curiosity myself," she says. "It seems a remote place for a town of this size, Master Oldfellow. What living can people make so high up in the mountains?"

"Oh, we do well enough, my lady," he says. "There's good grazing in the summer, for goats and sheep, and we're known for our weaving." Belle thinks of Rumplestiltskin, of his spinning, and hides her smile. A spinner for a lord, and weavers to serve him. It seems fitting, somehow.

There are still people staring at her, people whispering about her, as Oldfellow escorts her to the market. Belle tries to ignore them, tries to remind herself that curiosity cannot harm her – tries to remember her position and her duty. She hopes they aren't looking at her in fear, hopes they're just curious.

She hopes, in vain, that she and her marriage will not be a subject for gossip. In vain, because she knows what people are like, knows that they'll talk of her, and of her appearance in town. People will talk, even if they're afraid of Rumplestiltskin, even if their talk is confined to whispers beside hearths.

"The market is just down here, my lady," Oldfellow tells her, extending his arm to guide her down the road and around a corner. "I'm sure you'll find something to please you." He means more than he says, Belle thinks, and resolves to buy something, anything, to keep the townspeople from feeling they and their goods have displeased her.

She has no wish for them to be more frightened of her than they already are, no desire to give them cause to worry over Rumplestiltskin's temper should she not seem pleased.

"I'm sure I will," she says in answer to the mayor. "And – I'm afraid I don't know her last name, but the girl who brought the gifts to me, Mary? I'd like to thank her again." And try to reassure her that Rumplestiltskin bears her no ill will, but Belle can hardly say such a thing to Oldfellow.

Mayor Oldfellow nodded. "She'll be at the market," he says. "Her father has a stall there." They reach the market then, a large open square filled to bursting with stalls and handcarts and _people_, people too busy with their lives to bother staring at Belle.

Belle's smile is genuine as she turns to her escort. "What a merry sight," she says. "Will you show me around, Master Oldfellow?"

The mayor bows his head, and he's smiling too, a reluctant thing tugging at his mouth and making him appear quite ten years younger.

"It would be my pleasure, my lady," he says. "And first, perhaps, a hot drink?"

"That sounds perfect," says Belle, and follows him into the square.

* * *

Just a quick note to say tomorrow's chapter will be late, because I have to have an MRI scan tomorrow evening at 7pm (weird time, I know). Chapter will probably be posted at around 9pm GMT.


	26. Chapter 26

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

If Rumplestiltskin is surprised that Belle hasn't run, when he comes to collect her later, he doesn't show it. Indeed he shows very little emotion, and says almost nothing as he helps her into the carriage. He passes her shopping up to her and then pauses to say something in an undertone to Oldfellow. The mayor nods his head, says something in return, and then Rumplestiltskin joins Belle in the carriage and they begin the journey back to the Dark Castle.

Belle wants to talk to him, to thank him for allowing her these few precious hours with people other than him. To speak of the things she'd seen and the goods she'd bought – cloth to make herself an apron, new ribbons for her hair, things she could have asked him for but had delighted in choosing for herself. But she can't. Rumplestiltskin sits in the corner of the carriage, scowling fiercely as he stares out of the window. He doesn't look at her at all, throughout the journey home, and Belle sits still and quiet and _refuses_ to be hurt by it.

When they reach the castle, he helps her out and even goes so far as to carry her packages in for her, and Belle follows him to the great hall, watches as he carefully places the wrapped parcels onto the table. He goes to his spinning wheel then, stands beside it and turns the wheel, and Belle slowly removes her cloak and folds it over the back of a chair.

She hesitates, watching him, watching the lean lines of his back, his lowered head. There are so many things she wishes she could say to him, but she can't quite find the courage to ask why he'd insisted she be there when he confronted Edith – why he'd demanded an apology from the old woman when he'd intended to punish her anyway. She wants to know why he'd let her wander the town, albeit with the mayor as escort, why he'd _tested_ her in such a way, and yet she's not sure she can manage to ask any of these things when he's become so remote.

Belle hugs herself and takes a deep breath before speaking.

"Have I offended you?" she asks him. Rumplestiltskin lifts his head but doesn't turn to face her, and Belle gains some bravery from that. If he'd turned, she thinks, she might have lost her courage in speaking out. "Have I done something, sir, to upset you in some way?"

"Upset me?" Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, turns on his heel so he's looking at her. Belle holds her breath for a moment, but there's nothing of anger in his face, nothing to suggest she shouldn't have spoken. "Indeed not."

"Then why are you –" Belle cuts herself off, drops her hands to her sides. "I've no wish to nag," she murmurs. "But may I know why you won't talk to me?"

"You don't nag," Rumplestiltskin mutters, and then he sighs. "I'm not always good company, my lady. You'd do best to leave me be."

Belle purses her lips, shakes her head and steps towards him. "If that's what you want," she says. "But I haven't done anything? Truly?"

"Truly," Rumplestiltskin assures her. He closes the distance between them, takes her hands in his and offers her a half-hearted smile. Belle tries to smile back, but his silence has unnerved her, and despite his assurances she's sure she's somehow the cause of it. "You've done nothing, my lady. You enjoyed your outing? Hm?" He seems to be trying to shake himself from whatever melancholy had taken him, and Belle tries to smile properly, tries to help him return to his usual mood.

"Very much," she says. "Thank you for taking me." She hesitates, and Rumplestiltskin's mouth twists, he nods knowingly. "At least," Belle adds, "thank you for letting me go to the market." She looks down at their joined hands; Rumplestiltskin's thumb is rubbing across her wedding ring, and she wonders what it means to him. It's a symbol of their marriage, but their marriage contains so little that she'd expected from a marriage.

"You must remember who I am," Rumplestiltskin tells her softly then, as if he's guessed her thoughts. "Remember what I am, dearie."

"That's why you took me to see Edith?" Belle asks, slow and hesitant. "So I wouldn't forget that – that you can be cruel?" Rumplestiltskin doesn't chastise her for the question though, doesn't become angry at her bluntness. He squeezes her hands, rocks forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Precisely," he murmurs, and there's something sad in his voice. "You mustn't forget who I am, my lady. You mustn't think too kindly of me. Remember your stories, hm?"

"But you're my husband," Belle says, and she lifts their joined hands, holds his close to her. "Should I not think kindly of my husband?" she asks him. "Before we were wed, my friend warned me that there are men who are not kind, and cannot learn to be kind. Do you not think I was afraid, then, when she spoke of such men?"

"I knew you were afraid," Rumplestiltskin says, and he's frowning now, tries to tug his hands from hers but she won't let him go. "You are still."

"Sometimes," she has to admit. "Sometimes I am. But I think you are too, sometimes."

"Hm." Rumplestiltskin is staring at her now, almost as if he'd never seen her before, and Belle bites her lip, tries to meet his gaze without flinching away from the directness of it. "Sometimes," he says, "I wonder what magic birthed you. I never imagined anyone would stand with me."

"Well, I am standing with you," says Belle. "And I shall do so for the rest of my life. No matter what you do." She drops her gaze to their hands, their fingers linked together. "I'm not sure what that makes me," she says softly. "I was scared of you today, and yet I stood with you. I would not have disgraced you by doing otherwise."

"You could hardly have done that," he says, almost scornfully, but his scorn is not directed at her. At himself, perhaps, but Belle doesn't allow herself to dwell on it. "You did very well, my lady," he goes one. "But I…do not like scaring you."

"And yet you'd have me remember your cruelty," Belle reminds him. "You cannot have both, Rumplestiltskin." She glances up at him again, sees the frown on his face and for a moment she wants nothing more than to kiss it away. She can't reconcile these things, her kind husband whom she is growing to desire, growing to care for in unexpected ways, and the cruel, vicious Rumplestiltskin that others see.

"You think yourself a monster," she says impulsively then. "But I don't see that in you. Or at least…I see other things in you as well."

His frown fades into a smile – small, but genuine. "You see more than others would, my lady," he tells her. "Years without number, all I've been is beast. You'd make a man of me, would you?"

"No," says Belle slowly, "not…not an ordinary man, at least. You could never be that." She tilts her head to one side, bites her lip for a moment. "My friend," she says, "told me of other sorts of men too. Men who don't know how to be kind, but could learn."

"Am I learning, then?"

"If you are, so am I," says Belle. "I'm learning to be your wife, just as you're learning to be my husband." She squeezes his hand, watches him, watches as he looks at her thoughtfully. "And," she continues, "being your wife means I must accept all parts of you, surely? I would not like to be a scold, and try to change things about you." She smiles then, and he smiles with her, as if amused by the very idea.

"I'd like to see you try," he says, teasing a little, and she likes that, likes that he's in a good enough mood now to tease her. "My wife," he murmurs then, and his smile fades into something else, something that's more awed. "You're a strange thing, my lady."

"Is that good?" she asks, nervous now from the change in him. "You said I wasn't what you expected, before." She wants to retreat, but he's holding her hands still, not tight enough to be hurting her but firm enough that she can't pull away from him. "I am what I am, sir."

"Don't call me that," Rumplestiltskin says, almost snapping, a hint of a snarl in his voice and his mouth, and Belle stands still, lowers her eyes and tries not to feel reprimanded for she's sure he doesn't mean it so sternly. He sighs, a deep exhalation, and releases one of her hands so he can put his fingers beneath her chin and lift her face so she's looking at him once more. "My name," he reminds her. "I'll not be 'sir', not to you."

"Alright," Belle says after a moment. "I'm sorry." He lowers his hand, places it at her waist and makes a visible effort to shake off his brief flare of distemper. "Rumplestiltskin," she murmurs, and rests her free hand on his shoulder. They should be dancing, she thinks, and wants to smile at the thought. She's so often thought that Rumplestiltskin dances, that his strange way of moving must mean he dances to music nobody else can hear. "And when will you use my name, my husband?" she asks him, and Rumplestiltskin smiles a crooked smile.

"Are you giving it to me, my wife?" he asks in return. "Remember what I said about names."

"I remember," she nods. Names are special, he'd said, powerful if given away. But Rumplestiltskin is already powerful, and she is already his wife. She's already given herself to him, in the ways that matter if not in the marital bed. She's given up the duties she had, towards her father and her village, and taken up duties here instead. Some, it's true, she's found for herself – but others he's given her. She is his wife, and she wishes he would use her name, at least some of the time.

"I'm yours anyway," she says, and feels herself blush at the way he looks at her, the knowing lift of an eyebrow and twist of his mouth. "Your wife. Shouldn't my husband be able to use his wife's name?"

"Such a strange thing you are," he murmurs. "Three weeks ago I thought I'd consigned myself to a weeping, snivelling girl."

"I cried over my village's fate, not my own," Belle reminds him. "I didn't cry when you came for me, did I?" He's swaying her a little, their feet not moving but the intent there. He wants to dance with her, she thinks, and wonders whether he'll make the first step.

"Not at all," says Rumplestiltskin, and he grins. "That might have been a deal-breaker, dearie."

"You never break your deals."

"True." His hand at her waist is a gentle pressure, and Belle smiles when he waltzes her a few paces, laughs when he twirls her. He's all smug satisfaction now, pleasure at pleasing her, and she doesn't mind it, not when he's smiling at her, not when his whole focus seems to be on…

On something. They waltz around the room to unheard music, and Belle is trapped in his gaze, in those eyes that are so unlike any other eyes she's ever seen. She can ignore, when he looks at her thus, how cruel he can be at times. Not forget, because Belle is not stupid and she knows she must never forget it, never try to pretend her husband is anything other than what he is, but she can ignore it now, when he is looking at her with such focus. When he is waltzing her around the room like a proper courtly gentleman.

And he likes it too, she thinks, he's not merely doing this for her pleasure. He's enjoying the dance as well. There's a softness in the lines of his face, a wonder, that makes her think it has been a long, long time since anyone liked him well enough – or was fearless enough – to dance with him.

They come to a halt close to his spinning wheel, and Belle looks up at him with an easy smile.

"Unique," he says, and she tilts her head, confused. "You asked what it made you," he enlightens her, "to be willing to stand by my side, even when you're afraid. It makes you…unique." He's grinning now, all possessiveness, all satisfaction, but for once Belle doesn't mind it. For now, at least, she doesn't mind that he likes the idea of having her here as one of his unique treasures.

He treasures her, she thinks giddily, and can hardly believe it. That first day here, that day that seems so long ago now, he'd told her he had no use for her. But he has come to treasure her, and it's important to her, that knowledge. She'd never looked for such a thing in this marriage. She'd never truly looked to be cared for, to be valued as he seems to value her.

He releases her hand but doesn't step away from her; he circles her waist with his hands, pulls her a little closer to him, and Belle's breathless from the dancing, breathless from the way he looks at her. He's warm against her, his dragon-skin coat a cold contrast beneath her hand. She wishes she could feel the silk of his shirt instead, for the coat is a reminder of that other Rumplestiltskin, the one who makes her afraid.

He's going to kiss her, she realises then. He's slow, lowering his head so slowly that if she wanted she could step back, for his hands aren't tight at her waist, merely resting there, holding her gently in his embrace. He pauses just before their lips meet, and Belle can feel his breath on her face, can see the darkness of his eyes. Such strange eyes, so unlike any other man's eyes.

"If you say no," Rumplestiltskin murmurs then, "I will accept it, my lady."

"And if I say yes?" she asks, and she's almost breathless, almost dizzy without knowing why. He smiles, a soft thing, and presses his lips to hers.

There's nothing chaste in this kiss, nothing gentle despite the gentle way he holds her. His mouth is questing, demanding, and he swallows her gasps, traces her lower lip with his tongue. Then his tongue meets hers, wet and warm and Belle feels him shudder as she presses closer to him, as she lifts her free hand to clutch at his shirt.

He breaks away from her mouth just as she begins to think she must pass out from lack of air, but he presses kisses to her jaw, open-mouthed kisses and he grazes his teeth across her throat, soothes her skin with his tongue. Belle clings to him, and he's practically holding her upright now. He murmurs something that she can't quite hear and returns to her mouth, kissing her again. Softer this time, less demanding but no less wanting. She closes her eyes to better concentrate on the sensations, on the taste and feel of him.

When they part he presses his forehead against hers, and their breath mingles. Belle keeps tight hold of him, certain she'll fall if she tries to step away from him, and he doesn't seem inclined to step away either, his hands remaining at her waist.

Finally he takes a breath, lifts his head away from hers, and Belle opens her eyes to look at him. She can't tell what he's thinking, but she thinks – she hopes – he's pleased. She hopes he feels a little of what she feels.

"Belle," he says. It feels like a blessing, and Belle smiles, filled with joy, and something else too, something indescribable. "Belle," he repeats, and seems unable to say anything else. Belle releases his shirt, strokes her fingers down his face; he turns into her touch and looks at her in wonder, as if he'd never dreamed anyone would touch him like this, and the thought of it makes her grieve for him.

"I – it must be nearly time for lunch," she says, and when he gives a dazed kind of nod she lets her hands fall from his face, his shoulder. "Will you join me?"

"…No," says Rumplestiltskin, and Belle can't quite hide her flash of hurt. He takes his hands from her waist, touches her lips with a finger, just briefly. "Not for lunch," he says. "Tea, though. Later. I must attend to my work, first."

"Alright," Belle nods. "Later, then." She takes a reluctant step away from him, and he seems just as reluctant as he watches her; he doesn't stop her going, though, and Belle pauses only long enough to collect her packages before leaving the room.

* * *

MRI went alright, thanks to everybody who sent good thoughts :)


	27. Chapter 27

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle uses the time alone well, despite her longing to see Rumplestiltskin again and the feelings he's elicited in her. She's determined not to dwell on the events of the morning – either in the town or in the great hall. She feels too confused about it all to risk thinking too much about her strange husband, particularly when she finds herself wanting him to come to her and kiss her again.

He is her husband, she reminds herself, and such things are permitted within marriage. But she's never felt it before, and now she's away from him, she's remembering the lesson he said must be taught today. A lesson for Edith and for Belle, a lesson on his cruelty, and Belle must try to learn it, to remember who and what she has married. She must remember that even as she grows to care for him.

So Belle busies herself with work; she eats a simple lunch and then scrubs the kitchen table until it's spotless and spreads her new cloth over it. She retrieves scissors and pins from her work basket in her bedroom, opens the kitchen door a little so the kittens can explore the kitchen yard, and sets to work on her new apron.

That occupies her for several hours as she concentrates on marking out the shape of it and then on cutting it carefully and pinning the hem all around. Eventually the kittens tire of the outside world and come in to sleep in a pile beside the fire, so she closes the kitchen door and rests for a moment, leaning against the table, pleased with her progress.

In inactivity, though, her thoughts return to Rumplestiltskin, to the kiss they'd shared in the great hall and the way he'd touched her, so reverently. She'd spoken truly to him, Belle thinks now; if she is to be his wife, wholly and completely, she must accept all parts of him. His malice as well as his kindness, the evil he does as well as the courtesy he shows to her.

Belle touches her lips and wonders if she can do that – or rather, wonders _how_ she can do it, for his cruelty to Edith had not stopped Belle from dancing with him, from kissing him.

The afternoon is wearing on, she realises with a jolt, and it's surely time for tea. Belle folds away the pieces of her apron and goes to put the kettle over the fire. While she waits for the water to boil she goes to the larder to seek out something to accompany their tea, and she deliberates for long moments between sweet current buns and the flaky pastries that have appeared on the shelf overnight.

She's nervous, and she doesn't want to be but can't pretend she isn't, can't pretend her stomach isn't fluttering oddly at the thought of him. If she knew what to expect it might be easier, but her husband is so capricious that she can't be certain he'll still be in the same good humour that she'd left him in before lunch.

Today has proven that much to her, has reminded her not to take any good mood for granted, because there is an ugly side to his nature that she _must not_ forget.

When she returns to the kitchen Rumplestiltskin is already there, lifting the kettle from the fireplace, and Belle puts her plate of buns down on the table. She's blushing and doesn't quite know why, for Rumplestiltskin is doing nothing out of the ordinary. He nods at her when she enters the room, but his look isn't particularly open, particularly lustful. She blushes, she thinks, because she can remember the feel of his mouth on hers, of his lips at her throat, and the feel of his hands at her waist holding her close to him.

He puts the kettle down and comes to her, close enough to touch but then he seems to hesitate. Belle pushes aside her nerves and her awkwardness, reaches and takes his hands.

"Hello," she says with a smile. "Has your work gone well?"

"Well enough," he says gruffly, and now she's bridged the gap between them he seems more confident, tugs her close to him and then pulls his hands from hers so he can wrap his arms around her waist. Belle's smile grows, and she rests her hands on his shoulders, relishes the feel of being in his embrace. "And you, my lady?"

She's fleetingly disappointed that he doesn't use her name, but she pushes it aside before it can be more than a fleeting thought.

"I've been making myself a new apron," she says, and laughs at his expression. "Not all of us," she says, "have important magical work to do. I bought the cloth in the market today." She plays with the ends of his hair, so much softer than she might have guessed. "My old apron is still perfectly good, but they were so eager for me to buy something," she adds.

"I'm sure they were," says Rumplestiltskin, and for a moment he sneers, for a moment his attention distracted from her. "They'll have wanted to impress you," he says, "for fear of my displeasure."

"Since that's the impression you want to give," says Belle archly, "I don't see why you scorn them for it."

Rumplestiltskin gives a high-pitched laugh, and his hands tighten about her waist. "True enough, dearie," he says. "You did enjoy it, then."

"Of course I did." Belle wriggles from his arms then, goes to pour the hot water into the teapot before it cools enough to need re-boiling. Rumplestiltskin doesn't protest, but she feels him watching her as she moves about the kitchen.

"As long as you were pleased," he says, and Belle nods, brings the teapot to the table. "Perhaps," says Rumplestiltskin then, slowly and with reluctance, "perhaps you can visit again."

Belle puts the teapot down and looks at him. "You trust me not to run?" she asks quietly.

"I'd be a poor husband if I didn't trust my wife at least a little," Rumplestiltskin says with a shrug, and if it's not quite an answer, it's enough for Belle to understand. He wants to trust her – today had been a test, as she'd suspected – and he's taken to heart her words about not being one of his ornaments. He's understood that she'll bear it if she must, but that she wants to be more.

She smiles, and goes to collect cups – the chipped one for him, as usual. "I'd like that," she says. He seats himself at the table and Belle retrieves milk and then goes to join him, sitting opposite him. She pours the tea, and his fingers brush hers when he accepts his cup from her. He watches her, and Belle tries not to let it fluster her, reaches for a bun and tears a piece from it.

"I forgot," she says suddenly. "I have letters, for my father and my friend Laura. If – if you'll let me send them?"

"I told you that you might write," says Rumplestiltskin, and he leans back in his chair, curls his hands around his cup. "It would be churlish of me to refuse now, don't you think?" He smirks, and Belle shrugs her shoulders, eats the piece of bun she's torn off. Rumplestiltskin cradles the cup in his hand, seeming to take some comfort from it. His thumb, she can see, rests over the chip she'd caused in her clumsiness. She wonders why he likes it so, that chipped cup.

"I would not," Rumplestiltskin says suddenly, "deny you anything that brings comfort. Your letters…it pleases you, to write them, and to hear news from your father?"

Belle nods, but he doesn't look up so she speaks. "Yes," she says. "Very much."

"Then have no fear I'll curtail it." He glances up at her then, just briefly. "I would not deny you comfort," he says again. "You will tell me, if there is anything you need." It's an order, more than a request, but Belle doesn't mind agreeing to it. She likes that he cares enough to demand it of her – likes that he _shows_ he cares enough.

She smiles, nods again. "I will," she promises. "And you, Rumplestiltskin? What gives you comfort?" She means it teasingly, but he takes her seriously, sips his tea as he ponders his answer. He's silent for long moments, and Belle eats a little more of her bun, wonders what he'll say.

"Spinning," he says at last. "Spinning…helps me forget."

"Forget what?" Belle asks, and it's thoughtless, for as soon as she asks she remembers his son, remembers the boy whose room is a shrine upstairs. A father who has lost his child, she thinks, must want to forget the grief of it, if not the child itself. She wishes the words unsaid, but Rumplestiltskin doesn't take offence; he smirks, but it's a meaningless gesture, a façade behind which he's hiding.

"I guess it worked," he says, and Belle stifles a sigh, isn't sure whether she's relieved he's not upset or disappointed that he won't give her a serious answer. Time, she reminds herself. It's not yet a month since she arrived, and in the past day they have come so far. She must not push him beyond his comfort, must not ask more than he's willing to give.

"And," he adds, and he's uncomfortable now, more halting than she's used to from him, "I find I'm not…unhappy. With you here."

It's as much as he seems able to say, the greatest admission that he likes her presence and her company that he's able to articulate, and Belle hides a pleased smile behind her tea cup. She knows he likes her company – he shows it in their shared meals and in the way he is beginning to seek her out between meals as well. But she likes to hear it, just as much as he liked to hear, yesterday evening, that she'd missed him when he was gone.

"I think I'll leave supper to the castle," she says lightly, changing the subject, "and tackle a little more of the library this afternoon."

He grins, shaking off any lingering traces of discomfort. "It'll take you years, dearie," he predicts. "Don't let the dust choke you to death, hm?

"Unless the dust comes to life," says Belle with a laugh, "I'm not sure there's much danger of that. And I'm not in any rush. I'm not going anywhere, after all."

"Indeed not," he murmurs, and he seems pleased. Belle wonders if he's starting to believe her when she says she will not run, that she has no intention of breaking the vow she made when she married him. To be his, forever. His wife for the rest of her life, if not the rest of his – for although she has no idea how old he is, the stories are old, ancient even. He is, perhaps, not as old as some stories say – not as old as the world, nor yet as old as the boundaries that mark out different countries. But he is old enough that she's sure he will long out-last her; and what, she thinks wryly, could kill such a powerful being as Rumplestiltskin?

"And you, my husband?" she asks him, dragging her thoughts away from such gloomy subjects. "What will you do this afternoon? More work?"

"No," says Rumplestiltskin, and he drains his cup, puts it carefully down on the table. "I must leave that until tomorrow. It needs time to…rest." He smirks at something, something that Belle doesn't understand. For a moment – just a brief moment, because she knows better really – she wishes she knew more about magic, so she could share the mysteries of his work.

But she knows better; magic is powerful and dangerous and Belle has no wish to know any more about it than she does, not really. Her desire is more to share her husband's life than to have any share in the power he wields so easily.

"Bring your letters to my work room," he continues, oblivious to her thoughts. "I'll send them."

"Thank you," Belle says, and she finishes her bun, drains her cup of the last of her tea. Rumplestiltskin hasn't eaten, but that's not unusual, and so she rises and collects the empty cups to take to the sink. "I won't be long," she says, returning for the teapot. The kittens have woken up, and she almost trips over one as she reaches the kitchen table. Rumplestiltskin springs up to steady her, an arm looping around her waist and a hand at her shoulder, and Belle allows herself to cling to him a little, to hold on to his arm and his shoulder and lean into his warmth.

"If I'd known you'd fall over them," he says sourly, "I would never have brought the creatures into the castle."

"It's not their fault," Belle excuses at once. "I should watch where I'm going."

"My accident-prone wife," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. "Well. As you say." He seems reluctant to pull away from her, and Belle finds that she doesn't want to withdraw from him either. She straightens a little, slides her hand further down his shoulder, fingers the edge of his waistcoat. He's frowning faintly, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, and she hopes he's not frowning at her, hopes she isn't mistaking him.

But she's not sure, so she clears her throat, steps away from him and picks up the teapot.

"I'll bring the letters," she mumbles, and goes to the sink, pours away the dregs and then adds the pot to the cups in the sink. "I'll just wash up first."

"As you wish, dearie," says Rumplestiltskin, and if he's disappointed by her withdrawal he doesn't show it. His tone is light, careless, and he's not looking at her when Belle glances back at him. He leans over the table and inspects the plate of currant buns before taking one, and Belle smiles a little as she goes to heat water for washing the collection of dirty dishes that's piled up in and beside the sink.

"The castle could do that," he reminds her, a parting shot as he heads for the door, and Belle shrugs her shoulders as she ties on her old apron.

"I like the work," she points out. "I won't be long." He makes a sound, disgruntled or perhaps irritated, but Belle doesn't look at him again, and after a moment she hears his footsteps retreating down the passage beyond the door.


	28. Chapter 28

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: M

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

He comes to find her that evening, after they've parted for the night. Belle is in her bedroom when he knocks on the outer door, and she catches up a shawl to wrap around her shoulders, to add a little more modesty. She's wearing only her nightgown and slippers, her hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, and when she opens the door to him she sees naked longing on his face for a moment.

He doesn't speak at first, his distraction evident. He's trying to keep his gaze on her face, but she sees the way his eyes flicker down, and she flushes, holds her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

"I'm disturbing you," he says eventually, and clears his throat awkwardly. "I'll go."

"No – no." Belle releases her shawl so she can reach out to him, grasps his sleeve lightly and offers him a smile. "You're not disturbing me," she says. "Come in."

"It – no," he says, and he shrugs half-heartedly, not enough to dislodge her hand from his arm although that seems to be his intent. He shakes his head, and his smile is thin. "It would not be wise," he says. "With you…thus."

Belle's cheeks are hot, and she feels very conscious of herself. Her nightgown ties at the neck with a ribbon, but she's not tied it tightly and so it's falling off one shoulder. She's not wearing corset, drawers or dress – nothing but her nightgown and a shawl, and it's scant protection, scant modesty. She feels bare before him, as she had that very first time they'd met.

But he is her husband now, and she has thought of this.

"Come in," she repeats, and he inhales, lifts a hand as if to touch her, stops just before his fingers would brush against her hair.

"I told you," he says, "that I'd not come uninvited."

Belle knows what he means, of course. He's been invited in before, has several times sat with her in the sitting room beside the fire, but this isn't the same thing. On those occasions there has been nothing like the undercurrent of…of _desire_ she feels when she looks at him now. She'd been clothed and he'd been careful of her, respectful of the boundaries he's placed upon her and upon their relationship.

And, she thinks, he'd only been in her sitting room. She is inviting him further, tonight, and they are both aware of it.

There will be no turning back, and Belle knows she must be sure. If she so much as flinches away from his touch, once she's invited him in, he will assume she is still unwilling, assume she's doing this from some idea of duty. But duty is not the first thing she thinks of, when she thinks of inviting him into her bedroom this night – even though she doesn't know exactly what to expect, duty doesn't really seem to come into it. This man standing before her is her husband, and she has kissed him and has felt a longing to be in his arms.

"Come in," she says once more, and she steps aside to allow him entrance. Rumplestiltskin looks at her for a long moment and then obeys, comes into the room and closes the door behind him.

Belle's hesitant now, not sure what will happen next, and she wraps her shawl tighter around herself, lowers her head and feels very young and very foolish. Very ignorant, and although she's invited him in, she has no idea what to do now.

Rumplestiltskin steps close to her, puts two fingers beneath her chin and lifts her head so she has no choice but to look at him.

"Are you afraid?" he asks softly, and Belle bites her lip, shakes her head. "Be truthful, my lady."

"I'm not _afraid_," Belle tries to explain. "But I – I think I'm nervous." She's worried he won't like her answer, but his look isn't disapproving or scornful; he traces his fingers up her jaw, cups her cheek in his hand, and Belle turns her face into the touch. "Do I please you, then, my husband?" she dares, and she knows he remembers that night as vividly as she does, when she'd come to him in the great hall wearing nothing more than she's wearing now, and had asked if she displeased him. She knows he remembers; his hand falls from her face, and his expression is grave.

"You have always pleased me, my wife," he says. "More than I ever expected." His directness almost leaves Belle breathless, and he smiles then, a soft, private smile. "You please me," he murmurs, and he reaches for her, grasps her waist between his hands and brings her closer to him. Belle goes willingly, wraps her arms around his neck and lifts her face for his kiss. He doesn't disappoint her, lowers his mouth to hers and _kisses_ her, soft and gentle and Belle closes her eyes, lets herself drown in the sensation of being in his arms and of kissing him.

She gasps for air when at last they part, and it feels like there's heat running through her veins. Rumplestiltskin presses kisses to her cheeks, nips at her jaw, returns to her mouth before she's caught her breath and kisses her again. Belle presses closer to him, wants to be closer still, cups his head with a hand and feels daring when she follows his lead and darts her tongue out to _taste_ him.

Rumplestiltskin makes a sound, deep in his throat, and his hands are tight at her waist. Belle wants to laugh, her heart filled to bursting with emotion, but her mouth is too busy and she barely notices when Rumplestiltskin lifts a hand to push aside her shawl. She notices when he stops kissing her, when he trails a finger across her collarbone, and she shivers a little. Her skin feels too tight, too sensitive, for his touch – and yet she wants it.

But he doesn't know that; he stop at once, lifts his hands from her and frowns, and Belle recognises his darkening mood. She reaches for his hand, brings it back to her exposed shoulder.

"No," she says softly. "Don't think that. It's just – it's so _new_."

"New," he echoes, and he traces a line across her shoulder, touches the gold chain she wears around her neck, and she thinks he wants to touch lower, to touch where no man has ever touched. "Then you would truly give yourself to the monster, my lady? I'm nothing to look at."

"You're not a monster," Belle denies at once. "And you're not ugly, Rumplestiltskin." He lifts an eyebrow, makes a scornful sound, but Belle stands her ground. "Not to me," she says, qualifying her statement, but it's true. He is unlike any other man, but she's grown used to the green-brown of his skin, the blackness of his eyes, his sharp nails and his leanness. "Besides," she says, and she's flushing now, embarrassed without quite knowing why, "what have I to compare you to?"

He's silent for a moment and then he laughs, a soft sound, gentle amusement that lacks any edge of scorn or mocking. He's amused but not cruelly so, and Belle bites her lip as she looks up at him.

"My innocent wife," he says. "I've nothing of innocence left in me." Belle isn't sure that's quite true, but she says nothing, lifts a hand to cup his cheek, moves her thumb across his lips. "I'll ruin you," he murmurs, and Belle shakes her head but can't say anything. She's not sure exactly what he means, not sure she understands, and without understanding she doesn't quite dare try to form words.

He shakes off his momentary melancholy, tangles his fingers in the ribbon that ties her nightgown.

"Shall I ruin you, then?" he asks her, his expression all hopeful expectation, and Belle's mouth is dry but she gives a slow, shy nod. Rumplestiltskin exhales, steps close once more, tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her again, slow and languid. The heat from before has faded, but he reignites it now, a slow burn spreading through her, making her limbs heavy. She clutches at him, slides a hand between them and fumbles the buttons of his waistcoat free from their buttonholes.

He huffs a laugh as he stops kissing her, turns his head so his face is half-buried in her hair. "Bold girl," he murmurs.

"I'm sorry," Belle says at once, but Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, kisses her jaw.

"No, no," he says. "No apologies, dear one. Not now." Belle takes a breath, closes her eyes for a moment. Dear one. She likes that more than _dearie_, more than _my lady_. More even, perhaps, than her name. Dear one. "Your bed," he says softly, "would be more comfortable."

"I – yes." Flustered, Belle steps away from him, glances at her open bedroom door. She feels languid, feels half-estranged from the things around her, and she doesn't quite like it. There's heat curling in her stomach, and lower down, and when she moves her nightgown brushes almost uncomfortably over sensitised skin.

He waits, silent, for her to take the lead. Belle reaches for his hand and, making herself brave, takes him through the doorway. Her bedroom is well-lit by the candles in sconces on the walls, and the blankets are turned back, waiting for her arrival. Their arrival.

One by one the candles go out, extinguished quickly and effectively until only one still burns, barely enough to see by, and Belle turns to him questioningly. But he doesn't answer her unspoken question; instead he turns to close the bedroom door, to shut out the light spilling into the bedroom from the fireplace. Then he holds her close again, buries his face in her hair and seems to breathe her in.

Belle lifts a hand, strokes his hair, tries to push away her nervousness, to recapture the feeling of being in his arms and being kissed. It's easier when he lifts his head and kisses her, her anxiety abated by his tenderness. She concentrates on kissing him, on learning better how to kiss him, and what to do to coax from him the sound she loves, the groan from deep in his throat when she does something to please him. She likes to hear it, likes to know that she's doing this right, that he feels the same pleasure she's feeling.

Suddenly he breaks away, lifts her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Belle makes a startled sound, clings to him tightly as he carries her to the bed and lays her out on it. She feels horribly exposed, lying there in just her nightgown with Rumplestiltskin leaning over her still fully-dressed, but then he kisses her again and she wraps her arms around him, brings him closer.

He murmurs her name against her lips, and tangles one hand in her hair, plucks at the ribbon of her nightgown with the other. Shy, nervous, Belle almost wants to stop him, but she's chosen this, and he is her husband, so when he loosens her gown and slides his fingers beneath she makes no protest. She gasps though, when his nimble fingers skate across her breast and tease at her nipple, and Rumplestiltskin hums and does it again, circles his thumb and then lowers his head to kiss the skin bared by her loosened nightgown. Belle can't breathe for a moment, overwhelmed by the new sensations, by the feel of his hand on her breast.

"You are," he says softly, "quite lovely."

Belle flushes, shakes her head. "You're still dressed," she says, choosing not to answer him. "That's not fair."

He grins, an expression that's almost savage in the flickering light from the single candle, but Belle is too preoccupied with herself to be afraid, too busy trying to understand the tightness of her skin, the tension that's coiling in her stomach, the damp between her thighs.

"Fair's fair," he agrees, and he leaves her, rises and strips with quick, efficient movements. The light's so dim she can hardly see him, gains nothing more than an impression of his dark skin, of a leanness she'd only guessed at when he'd been clothed. She kicks off her slippers, hears them land on the floor, and then he rejoins her. He kneels beside her on the bed and kisses her again, frantic kisses now that make her head spin.

He slides a hand beneath her nightgown, up her leg, and Belle jumps, hides her face in his shoulder, certain he'll laugh at her innocence. But he doesn't laugh; he tickles his fingers across her skin, behind her knee, and she shivers and twists away from it. That makes him laugh, soft and deep, and Belle doesn't mind that laughter.

"Ticklish," he murmurs, and she nods.

"A little," she says. She reaches for him, trails her fingers across his face, down his neck, across his chest. He has nipples too, and she repeats what he'd done to her, flicks her fingers across the nub and is rewarded with a shudder, a groan. "Is this alright?" she asks softly. "Should I be –"

Rumplestiltskin takes her hand, links their fingers together. "There's no should," he tells her. "You – you wish to touch me?" Belle bites her lip, nods her head. Rumplestiltskin exhales, is quiet for a long moment, and Belle fears that she's done the wrong thing, that she isn't doing what might be expected of her. But, she reminds herself, how could she know what men and women do together in a bed? How can she do what Rumplestiltskin might expect?

She is, as he said, innocent.

"Belle," he says at last, and it's permission and benediction rolled into one, and Belle smiles, uses their linked hand to tug him closer so she can kiss him. It's messy and wet and _perfect_, and this time when his hand slides higher up her leg, up her thigh, she doesn't jump. He shifts then, releases her hand so he can lift her nightgown up, and Belle's cheeks are burning but she raises her arms so he can take the garment from her.

Shyness overcomes her once again, and she curls in on herself, wraps her arms around her chest to conceal her breasts.

"No, no," he croons, and he takes her hands, guides them to rest on his shoulders. "Let me see you, dear one." Belle's glad of the darkness then, glad she can't quite see him watching her, that her blushes cannot be seen. Rumplestiltskin cups her breasts in his hands, leans over her and brings his mouth to her skin, and Belle gasps, closes her eyes and arches up into his touch.

"_Oh_," she breathes. It's perfect, and he scrapes his teeth across her nipple, coaxing sounds from her, and Belle digs her fingers into his shoulders as he tastes her.

And then his hand goes between her thighs, and Belle can't breathe, his clever fingers delving into the wetness there, and he touches something that sends lightning through her, that makes her shudder, and she hears Rumplestiltskin's pleased sound but can't quite connect it with anything.

"You do want me, then," he says softly. "My remarkable wife." He stretches out beside her on the bed, kisses her once again, and Belle manages to coordinate her limbs enough to lift her hand to touch him. She brushes against something, and she'd known men were different from women but the hard length at his groin startles her. He huffs a breathless laugh, nips at her lower lip. "My want for you was never in doubt," he says.

Belle pauses at that, thinks back to that flash of _something_ in his expression when he'd seen her in her wedding dress, thinks of the tender way he'd tied her hair back after she'd almost fallen off the roof. Thinks of all the times she's found him watching her, the times he's dared to touch her. He's wanted her from the beginning, then, and she marvels at it.

But then Rumplestiltskin is kissing her again, and Belle thinks of very little.


	29. Chapter 29

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes cold and alone in the darkness of her bedroom. She turns over in the bed, reaches out in the hope of feeling some lingering warmth, but the sheets are cold. Rumplestiltskin must have left her some time before.

She sits up slowly, but she can see nothing in the darkness, no hint that Rumplestiltskin has even been here. She'd think she had dreamed it, but for the way she aches in odd, unaccustomed places.

She slides out of bed, flinches as her feet hit cold stone, and tiptoes across to open the door into the sitting room. There's light there, the dying embers of her fire sending a soft glow over everything, but no Rumplestiltskin. The embers aren't enough to heat the room, and she shivers, returns to her bedroom and fumbles for her slippers and a shawl. It's inadequate protection against the cold, and her bed calls to her, but Belle wants to find him. She doesn't want to return to the empty bed where, just a few hours ago, she'd fallen asleep in his arms and with every expectation that he'd be there when she woke.

He is not there, and Belle is determined to find him. So she wraps her shawl around herself and leaves the welcoming glow of the fire to make her way down through the castle.

She doesn't know where his bedroom is, and wouldn't feel able to approach him there anyway, for she's never been invited there. He could be in his workroom, but she thinks of the long climb up there and knows she's too tired for it. She wants to find him in the great hall, and she thinks he may be there, sitting at his wheel and spinning. She hopes she'll find him there, anyway, and she wanders down towards the great hall, her footsteps silent in her slippers.

The door to the great hall is open, and light spills out – not much, but enough to convince her that he's there. Belle slips through the doorway, stands and watches. He's spinning, slow but sure, his movements practiced, and she wonders how many years have passed by while he sits in his castle and spins. She wonders how old he is, how ancient.

She wonders many things, and then she steps across the room towards him. He hears her coming; he doesn't stop spinning, but his head rises, he turns away from her just slightly. Belle feels a momentary sting of disappointment, but she doesn't let it deter her. She stops beside the wheel, bites her lip and watches the motion of his hands.

"You'll get too cold, standing there," Rumplestiltskin says at last. He speaks softly, barely more than a whisper, and Belle wonders what he's thinking, why he's sitting here with barely enough light to see his wheel by.

"I'm alright," she replies. He scoffs, and Belle inhales slowly, measures her patience. She must be patient; she must be. She twists her hands into her shawl, and she waits. Eventually, she knows, Rumplestiltskin will not be able to bear the silence, to bear her vigil. Patience.

"Foolish girl," he mutters eventually, and he stops spinning, turns on his stool to scrutinise her. Belle tries to smile at him, but she's not sure she quite manages it. She doesn't think he should call her a girl, really. She's of age, and she's married, and now she is – she is – well, fully a wife.

She is not a girl any longer. But then the stories say that Rumplestiltskin is old; surely everyone seems a child to one who has lived through centuries.

"I woke," she says, a little shy now she's here, now she's saying it. "You weren't there." The candlelight flickers across his face, prevents her from truly seeing his expression, but she thinks he's surprised. She thinks she's surprised him, her powerful husband, and it's a pleasant feeling. She likes surprising him.

"I…did not think you would wish it," he says, haltingly, and Belle thinks his concern was more for his own comfort than hers. He is so unused to company, and although there must have been a woman once, to create the son whose loss he still mourns, she thinks it must have been long years since he last lay in bed with someone.

Or perhaps, she thinks wryly, she just hopes that it's been so long. She finds she likes the idea of being special to him. His dear one.

"I wish it," she says softly, and she hears him sigh, sees the way he lifts his hand, as if to reach out to her. She doesn't force him to it; she steps towards him before he can complete the gesture, and kneels beside him. He touches her then, strokes a hand across her hair, and Belle smiles. It relieves her, a little, that he is reaching out to her thus. She'd been afraid, when she'd woken alone, that she had somehow displeased him, somehow done something wrong.

She wants to ask him to come back to bed, to stay by her side until morning, but she remains silent for now as he strokes her hair. She wonders if perhaps she's been mistaken in expressing her wish, for she knows that married couples of her station do not always share a bed. Her parents had, but there is a suite of rooms, in her father's castle, that traditionally belong to the mistress of that castle.

Rumplestiltskin has slept apart from her, but now they have been together, and she had slipped so easily into sleep beside him, with his hand a warm weight at her waist. She thinks she could very quickly grow used to sharing a bed.

"Go back to bed, my lady," Rumplestiltskin says at last, and he leans down, kisses her forehead. "You will get too cold, whatever you say."

"I will be cold in bed," Belle murmurs, and is glad of the darkness to conceal the blush she's sure is heating her cheeks. "Will you not come with me?"

He smiles then, but it's mirthless. "And so, my innocent wife has lost her innocence," he says. "So eager, dearie?"

Belle feels a hot surge of irritation, and she pulls away from his hand, shakes her head. "Don't mock me," she says. "You know I didn't mean – you _know_ what I meant. Why do you mock me so?" She's too tired for this, she realises as she bites her tongue hard to keep tears at bay. It would be much better to go back to bed alone, and to accept his mocking in the morning when she is well-rested. But she is here now, and must defend herself as best she can.

But, to her surprise, Rumplestiltskin gives a weary sigh and nods his head.

"Forgive me," he mutters. "I know you meant nothing."

She sighs too, her anger fleeing as quickly as it had come, and she reaches out for his hand, entwines their fingers. She thinks of his years of isolation, of the way he lived before she arrived here. She thinks about the lesson he'd tried to teach her that morning in the town, that cruelty is part of his nature and she must not forget it. She must not cling to resentment at the way he sometimes reacts, the way he mocks her innocence, because resentment is not something she wants in her marriage.

"I meant," she says, "for my husband to sleep by my side in my bed. Surely there's nothing wrong in that?"

"There is nothing wrong in it," Rumplestiltskin says, "but I am not…" He trails off, sighs again, and Belle lifts his hand, kisses his knuckles. He's not comfortable, she thinks, and she mustn't push him.

"Alright," she says softly. "I'll go back to bed, then." He grips her hand tightly, as if he doesn't want to let go, and Belle kneels up, balances herself with a hand at his shoulder and kisses him. She's trying to show that she won't begrudge him this, that she accepts his decision, but she grows distracted when he slides his hand into her hair and deepens the kiss, lips and tongue and teeth and Belle could drown in this.

She ends up on his lap somehow, his arm supporting her back and her own around his neck. Her shawl is falling from her shoulders but it doesn't seem to matter. She loves this, these slow kisses, the way he holds her, so tenderly, as if she's the most precious thing in the world. It's a feeling she could get used to, and it doesn't matter that tiredness is tugging at her, that her toes are cold even in her slippers.

All that matters is that she is building something with this strange husband of hers.

But cold overcomes her; she shivers, a tremor that runs from head to toe, and Rumplestiltskin pulls away from her, gives a soft, amused laugh.

"I did warn you," he says, voice lilting high.

"So you did," Belle agrees, and she leans against him, closes her eyes. She should go back to bed now, while she still has the energy to move, but he's warm and he's holding her close, and that's not something she's willing to give up – and she's not willing to pull away first, either, so acutely aware that he might take it the wrong way.

"Must I carry you, then?" he asks, and his chest rumbles with his amusement. Belle smiles, moves her hand so she can tug at the ends of his hair.

"Maybe," she says, coyly. "Would you, if I asked?"

"Ask, and find out," he suggests, and Belle hums a laugh, and then covers a wide yawn. Rumplestiltskin chuckles, and in one swift movement he scoops her up into his arms and rises. "I'm glad you find my company so stimulating," he says, and Belle wraps her arms tightly around his neck and holds on to him. Not that she thinks he'll drop her, or let her fall; his grasp of her is secure, and she knows he hates it when she's injured. She thinks he would turn that hatred on himself tenfold if he were to drop her.

He carries her from the hall, up the great staircase, along the familiar route to her rooms. Belle rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, feels herself slipping inexorably towards sleep. Even now, though, she wishes he would stay with her. Even though she will soon be beyond caring whether he is beside her or not, safely away into dreams, she wishes he would stay in the bed beside her once they reach her rooms.

She must fall asleep, between one staircase and the next, for suddenly he's laying her down in her bed. Belle toes off her slippers and reaches for him when he would tuck the blankets firmly around her.

"Stay," she whispers. "Stay with me."

"Sleep, dear one," he says in response, and brushes his fingers down her cheek. "You must sleep. I've no desire for a wife pale with fatigue."

"Do you have a desire for a wife, then?" she asks, and her words are slurred from her sleepiness – foolish, too, for it's not something she should ask, not something she would ever dare to ask when properly awake, and when the daylight would let her see what his expression betrays. In the darkness and in her fatigue, though, the question seems a simple one.

And it's a question she's thought about often, over the last weeks since she agreed to be his wife, since she came here. He'd married her for a price, married her without thinking about what she would do here, and he's been surprised so often by her. But she wants it to be more, wants there to be more meaning to her marriage than he's given her so far. There is more, of course – she's creating more, gaining purpose and duty and happiness here with each passing day.

But she wants to know that it means more to him, too. Foolish, she tells herself, she is a foolish girl, just as he says.

Rumplestiltskin sighs and brushes her hair away from her face. "I had a wife before," he says, his voice a soft murmur that barely cuts through the space between them. "It was not a happy marriage, but it gave me my son." Belle is silent, looks up through the darkness towards him, and tries not to think about how unhappy her own marriage could have been – could still be, for it's so early yet, far too soon to be able to judge her life's happiness.

"I do not think I was a good husband," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. He keeps stroking her hair, a soothing motion. "And she's long gone, far too many years ago to think on." He sighs, wearied, and Belle feels guilty for her question, guilty for making him think of unhappy things. "I did not desire a wife, when I came to make the deal with you," he tells her. "But I am…contented with that deal."

Belle reaches for him, finds his arm and rests her hand on it. She feels awake, wakened by his truthful answer, and she feels compassion without having a means to show it. Pity, she knows, would be scorned, but it's not pity she feels. Compassion, for the lonely man who really has no more idea how to be married than she does.

"I am contented, too," she tells him softly. "Very much so."

He takes her hand, kisses her knuckles. "I am glad of that," he says. "And now, my wife, will you sleep?"

Belle nods, and this time when he moves to tuck the blankets around her she doesn't stop him, nor ask him to join her. He has revealed more of himself in the past few minutes than she could expect from a night spent in her bed, and she knows him well enough by now to know he will want to retreat after such a revelation. He will want solitude, and she can do nothing less than give him what he wants, especially after he's answered her foolish question.

She yawns, and Rumplestiltskin presses a kiss to her forehead as if she were a child and he her parent. It could not be farther from the truth, but once again she supposes that, woman or not – wife or not – she must seem so very young to him.

"Goodnight, Rumplestiltskin," she says, drowsy again now she's wrapped in blankets, her toes warming nicely.

"Goodnight, Belle," he says. He leaves, closes the bedroom door behind him, and Belle burrows into her blankets with a contented sigh. Four times now he's used her name, and although she likes the courtesy of 'my lady', treasures the endearment of 'dear one', she thinks the use of her name is special.

But she does not long think of such things; she slips easily into sleep, in the dark, cool silence of her room, and if she dreams, she does not remember them when she wakes in the morning.


	30. Chapter 30

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin does not join her for breakfast, and Belle determinedly does not mind it. She eats alone, sets bread to rise, fetches water for cooking with later, and then sits beside the kitchen fire and sews her new apron.

She'd thought, during the night when he'd revealed more of his past to her, that he would retreat and take solace in solitude. But she'd hoped he would not, hoped he would come to her, that perhaps he would realise how, in the coldness and starkness of the day, she might need some reassurance that he…that she had pleased him, as he had pleased her.

She hadn't imagined that there could be such pleasure in the marriage bed. She had always been told that it would be her duty, to lay with her husband and provide him with children, and whilst Belle has never shirked from her duty, neither is it always a pleasurable thing. Duty means carrying on despite personal feelings, despite any pain or sadness or grief. Duty is standing beside her mother's grave and assuming her role as lady of the house. Duty is knowing that her life cannot be what she might have dreamed for herself, and accepting that. Duty is…

Duty is not what she discovered last night in her bed with Rumplestiltskin, and Belle is blushing as she focuses on making neat, even stitches in the cloth. She'd not imagined tenderness or the patience he'd shown her in her nervousness. She hadn't expected kindness, even once she'd learned a little more of him, even after the kindnesses he's shown her. Nor had she expected him to be hesitant, tentative when he touched her, as if he expected that at any moment she would protest.

As if at any moment she would realise who she was in bed with, what dark creature lay beside her and above her. As if she would push him away from her, as if surely she could not desire such a strange, wicked, dark man.

He doesn't want an unwilling lover, nor yet, she thinks, a woman who is only feigning. And yet her desire had been real, her wanting for him, and there'd been no disgust. No thought for his cruelties, his malice, or any of the things that in the light of day she knows are part of him. She had thought only of her kind, gentle husband, the man who is so eager to please her.

She hopes she's begun to prove to him that she is not unwilling, even if it's only a beginning. She hopes he saw that in her last night, for any small hesitation, any ounce of reserve left in her heart, had been melted away by the care he'd taken to ensure she took pleasure in the act.

She is not an unwilling wife, not an unwilling lover. She'd hoped that he would begin to understood that, now, and yet he does not appear today. Belle doesn't know what to make of it, whether he's keeping his distance because of the things he'd revealed to her in the night or because he regrets what happened between them – or worse, because he thinks _she_ harbours any regret.

She doesn't know what to make of it, and so she concentrates on sewing – and then, when the plain sewing does not provide enough distraction for her hectic thoughts, she sits with idle needle and watches as the kittens practice their pouncing, tumbling about and playing at fighting with each other. It's entertaining enough, if not quite distracting. At intervals she shakes herself, applies herself once more to the work in her lap, but the morning is not a productive one.

He doesn't join her at lunchtime either, and Belle eats fresh bread and a soft, crumbly cheese and tries very hard not to mind it. She tries to remember that she's eaten many meals alone, and that he has work to do, and refuses to feel anything at all like the sting of rejection.

She prepares supper then, meat and vegetables chopped fine and put into a pot with a little water and a little wine, and sets it at the right distance from the fire. She'll need to check it, later, but it's done and that's a satisfaction.

She's found such satisfactions, in creating work for herself and not simply leaving things for the castle to do. There's a pleasure in work, in making her own meals and eating the fruits of her labour – burned or not, she hardly cares. She's become adept at deciding when bread is cooked, or when a stew needs stirring; she's learning more, from the books Rumplestiltskin has given her, and through the simple expedient of trial and error.

Belle is learning to take such satisfaction, such pleasure, when it's offered and where she can. Rumplestiltskin isn't unhappy with her presence – he said as much last night – and he seems to grow more easy with her every day, but she cannot look to him for purpose. Not yet, at least; it's still early, after all, the length of her life stretching out ahead of her. Her marriage will change, for no relationship is stagnant. Perhaps in time he'll discover ways in which she can be useful, things that he would like her to do.

Perhaps, in time, there'll be children. Perhaps she'll be a mother. It's a possibility that seems less remote than before, now he's been to her bed.

Her apron is sitting in her work basket beside her fireside chair, but Belle doesn't want to sit and sew, so she collects her cleaning things and heads to the library. In books she can always lose herself, and she knows – she hopes – that she'll be able to push aside any hurt or confusion once she's surrounded by books and dust.

The library is as she left it, and she stands in the doorway and is pleased with the work she's done already, the contrast between clean shelves and dusty ones. It's nice to see the results of her work, to see the progress she's making. Not much, granted, compared to the work that still lies ahead, but progress nonetheless.

Small satisfactions, Belle thinks, and smiles to herself.

She opens the windows as wide as they'll go, bracing herself against the cold – worth it, to be able to breathe through the dust that lies thick over every surface in the library. Then she sets to work, resuming her dusting where she'd stopped last time.

It's less mindless than her earlier attempt at sewing, and she spends time glancing at each book as she cleans it. She notes the title of each, and marks some in her mind as books that might be particularly interesting to read. It's soothing, this work, easy enough to do but involved enough to distract her tangled thoughts.

Five shelves in, she comes across a gap in the shelves, in a section that seems otherwise devoted to dry tomes, mostly – from what she can tell – about the history of magic. The shelf is dusty; the books must have been taken long ago, long enough for the dust to have settled as thickly here as everywhere else. These, Belle thinks, must be books that Rumplestiltskin has taken up to his workroom, for there's nobody else who could have taken them and he'd said his books were up there – unless, of course, the books had been absent when he had taken up residence in the castle. He'd said that some things were here before he arrived, after all. Belle pushes aside her curiosity and cleans the shelf as she does the others.

She loses track of time in the library, in her self-appointed task of dusting and cleaning the entire room. There's no sun today to mark time by its passage through the sky, and nor does she have any marked candles to measure the passing hours. It's not a surprise to her, therefore, when Rumplestiltskin arrives. He's clearly in search of her, has clearly appeared in search of their accustomed afternoon tea, and Belle feels a little guilty that she hadn't realised how time had passed.

But then she remembers last night, and her feelings of hurt and need this morning, and she pushes aside her guilt and resolves to wait for him to speak first.

Rumplestiltskin stands in the doorway, sweeps his gaze across the room, and she can't tell what he's thinking as he looks at the dust and books and her work. Then he looks at her, and his expression alters, reveals something scared and nervous hidden beneath, and Belle's resolve melts. She drops her duster and steps close him, clasps her hands behind his neck and waits for his own hands to settle, almost naturally, at her waist.

She smiles, and it's enough for him, enough for that scared man that she can glimpse behind his eyes. He exhales, a soft sigh that shows something like relief, and he holds her close, close enough that she can feel his breath on her face, can see every tiny change of colour in his skin.

"I looked for my wife, and found only an empty kitchen," he observes. "You spoke truly when you said I'd have to drag you away from the books."

"I looked for my husband at breakfast, and lunch," Belle says, unable to restrain herself from the gentle reprimand. "And found none, and so I came here."

Rumplestiltskin has the grace to look ashamed, just for a moment; then he shrugs it off, offers her a smile that bares teeth.

"And now we have found each other," he says. "And you…are covered in dust." He frowns, wrinkling his forehead, an almost comical expression of distaste, and Belle has to laugh – which is, she's sure, his intent. To distract her from any lingering hurt with gaiety. It's worked, and she doesn't mind that. Hurt has its place, but so does amusement.

"Dust won't harm me," she says. "Nor you either, I dare say."

"Or perhaps it's my weakness," he says, teasing her now, and Belle laughs again, tilts her head to one side.

"Such a strange weakness that nobody could possibly guess it," she says, schooling her expression to graveness. "They might try magic or hard iron swords when they should just cover you in dust." He look at her keenly then, all levity gone as he searches for something in her expression. Belle sobers, not sure what she's said or why it could have offended him – but in a moment whatever coldness had struck him is gone, and he grins.

"Well, my lady, would it please you to take tea?" he asks. "Or are you too dusty?"

"It would please me," she says, and hesitates, not sure she should say what she wants to say. She bites her lip, and he watches her with that patience he sometimes shows, the patience that makes her feel he values her. He won't mock her, she thinks, and that gives her the bravery to put her thought into words.

"It would please me," she says softly, "if you were to kiss me."

Her cheeks are hot, but Rumplestiltskin doesn't mock her boldness, doesn't give her that knowing look that makes her feel so innocent and foolish. He simply lowers his head, brings his mouth to hers, and kisses her gently.

It is incredible, Belle thinks absently, how wonderful such a thing can be, and how far they have come in such a short time. It feels like weeks since they first did this, since they first kissed, but it's only a handful of days. It seems impossible that this should have become so natural, so – so –

They part, and Belle opens her eyes, finds him watching her with something vulnerable in his expression, something awed. It's something that silences any words she might have spoken, that makes her breathe carefully lest that makes his expression change. They stand together, silent and still, and Belle wonders what he is thinking, what he is feeling.

As for herself, she can hardly describe even in her own mind the things she's feeling. It's all too new, too strange, to put into words just yet.

At last he smiles, that soft smile that she's sure is reserved purely for her. She smiles back, filled with indescribable warmth, and doesn't protest when he kisses her again. One of his hands moves from her waist to her head, and he tangles his fingers in her hair, holds her close to him. Belle, feeling terribly daring, unclasps her hands and slips one between them, sliding her fingers through the gaps left between buttons of his waistcoat.

Rumplestiltskin makes a sound, breaks away from her to laugh, but it's not unkind.

"I told you," he says, and there's perhaps a measure of regret in it, "that I would ruin you."

"I don't feel ruined," Belle counters, and she's breathless, flushed and feeling as though her skin is too tight. She doesn't quite understand it, this feeling, the coiling tension that builds within her at his touch. She thinks of lust, of wanting, things that well-brought-up noble ladies are never taught about, things she's been discouraged from even thinking about, let alone hoping for, or expecting.

Things that she had never expected to apply to her marriage, not when she'd been betrothed to Gaston and not when she'd married Rumplestiltskin to save her village.

She bites her lip, nervous once again, and lets her hand fall to her side. Rumplestiltskin is silent, and she counts his breaths, even and regular, until she begins to breathe at the same time as he.

Synchronised, in harmony. Two as one, as a good marriage should be. Is this, then, a good marriage? Belle can't be sure, for she has little to base her judgement upon. Her mother had died so long ago.

"Tea," he says finally, and it's both relief and disappointment, but Belle nods, hides away that moment of disappointment carefully so he won't see it. "I like," he adds, "sharing tea with my wife."

She smiles at that and steps away from him, goes to retrieve her dusters and shake them out of the window. "Good," she says, "for I enjoy sharing tea with you." She closes the window, drops the dusters onto the table in the centre of the room and goes back to him. He bows his head, offers his arm, and she sees a glint of pleased satisfaction when she takes it.

It's odd, she thinks, the contrast between his gentleman-like manners and the mocking, sarcastic shell he so often wears. And yet, if she had to choose between the two aspects of him, she's not sure she could do it, no matter how she dislikes it when he mocks her. Both sides seem intrinsically part of him – even though she's sure he's never a gentleman to anyone else. She's sure of that, somehow.

"Deep thoughts, my lady?" he asks, a high, teasing note in his voice, and Belle shakes herself, smiles up at him.

"Hardly," she says, and it's barely even a lie, the thoughts gone with his interruption of them, and he accepts it, smiles a strange little smile – secretive, almost, as if she's amused him but he has no wish to share that amusement.

Belle doesn't mind; he has many secrets, after all. She doesn't begrudge him his private amusements.

But she must never have secrets from him, and that's something she's known for many days now. Belle must never lie to him, or try to keep things from him; it is something he would not forgive, she thinks, something that would bring out that awful, terrible rage. Not that she need tell him every slightest thought or action – no, she thinks he would not expect her to be so boring, so tedious as to do that. But nothing important.

"Come, then," she says gaily, hiding away her dark thoughts. "Tea."

He looks at her, bemused, one eyebrow lifted quizzically. "Tea," he agrees, and leads her from the library.


	31. Chapter 31

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Shout out to mealone for the wonderful art she's drawn for the fic: mebou . blogspot . ch / 2012 / 10 / i-think-that-i-like-seeing-you-wear-my . html

* * *

He comes to her again that night, and the next, and after that first day he doesn't stay away from her so much during the days, comes to share breakfast with her regularly as well as their usual afternoon tea and supper. He touches her more now too – casual brushes of his hand against hers, an arm wrapped around her occasionally, and once, memorably, he catches her around the waist and kisses her when she's elbows-high in washing up.

It feels almost like a dream, Belle reflects, four days after she had invited Rumplestiltskin into her bed. She's in the great hall, cleaning the windows that he'd stripped of curtains for her, half-expecting at any moment to be interrupted, for Rumplestiltskin had looked at her in such a way, at lunch, that it made her flush, made her aware of every inch of her body. She thinks the daylight would be no hindrance, to either of them.

She's slow now, her limbs heavy with that wanting that she'd previously thought would be confined only to the bedroom. She is learning with each passing hour, she thinks with a wry smile as she scrubs at years' worth of grime on the panes of glass. Learning things she never dreamed could be learned.

Half-expecting to be interrupted, trying to pretend she doesn't _want_ to be interrupted, Belle drops her rag into her bucket of soapy water and arches her back, easing tired muscles. She thinks she's grown a little stronger, a little hardier, over the past month since she'd taken up her self-imposed cleaning duties here, but it's hard to tell. Certainly the work is good for her, because the snow is unending and Belle scarcely gets further than the water pump most days.

It's nearly mid-winter, she thinks, and after that the days will grow longer, and the snow will cease by spring, or so Rumplestiltskin has promised.

"Well, well. It appears that for once the rumours were quite true."

Belle spins around so fast she knocks over her bucket, spilling water everywhere, suds and dirt across the floor and wetting her slippers. There's a woman standing just inside the doorway, a tall woman, dressed in dark, rich clothing. Rich enough to make Belle feel poor and shabby next to her, dressed as she is in one of her oldest gowns – fit only for cleaning windows, she'd thought this morning when she'd put it on. Now she wishes she were wearing one of the beautiful gowns Rumplestiltskin had given her, fit for the lady of the castle.

Something about the woman makes Belle's skin crawl, and it's not just that she's the only other living person she's ever seen within the walls of the Dark Castle. It's not just that, there's something else, something more. Something Belle can't name or decipher, but something…

Something powerful, she decides, and lifts a wet hand to finger the chain around her neck. The protection may not cover more than compulsions, and if this woman is powerful enough to appear here, in Rumplestiltskin's home, she's sure compulsions will be the least of her magic.

The woman's waiting for her to speak, but Belle isn't sure what to say, too shocked by her appearance here. She swallows, licks her lips, and remembers Rumplestiltskin's words to her, that day he'd taken her to town.

'_You've no betters here to bow your head to.'_

She straightens, lifts her head and offers a pleasant, polite smile. "Good afternoon," she says. "Can I help you with anything?" The woman smirks, a twist of her painted lips; it repels Belle, but she stands tall and dignified. She clings to that dignity, despite her soaked slippers and damp skirts and the way her hair is wildly escaping its ties. She is dignified; she is Rumplestiltskin's wife. This woman's smirk is nothing to her.

"I'm an associate of your husband," says the woman at last, and she steps forward, idly walks around the table. She walks as if she's used to being able to walk wherever she wishes, as if she's used to getting her own way. Noble, Belle categorises silently, perhaps even royal. Belle's instinct is to give way to her, but she resists it; here she is mistress, and she refuses to show her fear, her nervousness. "He is your husband, isn't he?" the woman asks, and there's something gleeful in her face and voice, something malicious. "Or are you his maidservant?"

Belle's cheeks are burning, but she holds her head high, answers the question as if there's no shame in being asked it.

"Rumplestiltskin is my husband, yes," she says, and she discovers power in using his name; the strange, dark woman flinches just a little, as if she hadn't expected Belle to say it. As if she'd expected Belle to be frightened of her husband.

She may be frightened, at times, but Belle would never allow that to show to somebody outside her marriage. She is his wife, and it's her duty to stand by him. She would never show her fear of him to anyone else, least of all this woman.

"So the rumours were true, then," the woman says. "I can scarcely believe it."

Belle doesn't like the thought of rumours, but there is Edith, of course, and Belle doesn't think she's one to hold her tongue. The whole town is aware of her now, and news such as this must travel fast. And a witch – for Belle's sure this woman is a witch of some sort – will have her own ways of hearing gossip, of finding news.

"Since I don't know which rumours you're referring to," she says slowly, "I can neither confirm nor deny them." The woman's smirk fades a little, and Belle feels she's gained a small advantage. "Forgive my rudeness," Belle adds then, "but I'm afraid my husband has not spoken of you. May I ask your name?"

"How disappointing of him," says the woman. "But you may have my name. I am Regina."

A chill runs down Belle's spine, and she suddenly, desperately, wishes for Rumplestiltskin. Even in her father's castle, even in their little village on the furthest borders of the kingdoms of men, they have heard of Regina. Queen Regina whose husband had been killed by a traitorous Agraban, whose step-daughter Snow has fled the kingdom. Queen Regina who is surrounded by treachery and death, who had revealed her power once her husband was dead. Queen Regina the dark, Queen Regina the _evil_, some whisper, although such whispers are generally spoken only by the dying, for what have the dying to fear from a witch-queen?

"And you," says Regina, stopping just shy of the puddle of water on the floor, "are Belle of East Riding, in the Marshlands."

"Belle of the Dark Castle," Belle corrects, unsettled by Regina's knowledge of her.

"Indeed," says Regina, and her smile is all sharp edges and private humour. Rumplestiltskin has a similar smile, sometimes, but where Belle has come to like his smile, she loathes Regina's. She doesn't like the idea that Regina is laughing at her, that Regina finds amusement in her.

When Rumplestiltskin laughs at her, he never makes her feel like this. Like her skin is crawling, like she's nothing in comparison to him. That's what Regina is doing, Regina is trying to make her feel like she's nothing. But Belle won't give her the satisfaction; Belle is not nothing.

She is silent, refusing to offer more for Regina's amusement, and it seems to disconcert Regina. Belle thinks that perhaps few people offer silence as a defence; she thinks most people beg, even if they have done nothing wrong.

She thinks the Queen before her likes to see people beg, somehow.

"Regina."

It's high and mocking and a little hard, but it's Rumplestiltskin's voice, and Belle turns thankfully towards him, towards where he's standing just a few paces from her where before had been empty space. He's smiling a crooked smile, but something darker lurks beneath, something dangerous. Something which should frighten Belle, but she know – knows instinctively, knows down to her bones – that it's in protection of her.

He will protect her, and that gives her the strength she needs right now.

"I'm not open for deals today," says Rumplestiltskin, and he grins, fierce and bright and daring Regina to something. "You're uninvited, dearie."

"Oh, come now, Rumple," says Regina, and Belle almost bristles at the shortening of his name. She's never imagined doing such a thing; although it's certainly a mouthful, it is his name and, as he's stressed to her, names have power. "You're never closed to deals," Regina continues. "And surely you don't intend to turn me out like a common vagrant." She smiles, confident and secure, and Belle wonders how much of it is an act. "We're friends, after all."

"Surely I don't," he says, mocking her, and if Belle hadn't been looking at Regina she would have missed a momentary faltering, a tiny break in her armour – tiny, and gone in barely the time between one heartbeat and the next.

"How inhospitable of you," Regina says then. "I haven't even had a chance to offer my congratulations yet." There's a gleam in her eye now, and she moves as if to step closer to Belle. Rumplestiltskin stops her, steps between her and Belle, and Belle can't see Regina's expression now, can't see much more than the elaborate hairstyle and the wide sweep of her skirts.

"Duly accepted," he says. "But as you can imagine, I'm rather busy right now." His voice is sliding high, he flourishes his hand, and Belle knows what he's insinuating, can't help the blush that warms her cheeks.

They are still newly-weds, after all.

"Of course," says Regina after a moment, and she inclines her head, steps away, enough so that Belle can see her properly again. "I imagine you are." Regina smirks, glances at Belle. "I'm not sure if I should be congratulating you or commiserating with you, dear," she says, and she sounds sympathetic, except the sympathy is edged with sharp pity, and Belle wants neither from this woman.

"Now, now," sings Rumplestiltskin, "be careful, dearie. Wouldn't want to give my bride the wrong impression of me, would you?" He glances, just briefly, at Belle; she takes the hint and remains silent, despite not being sure why he wishes it. She's not sure what's going on here, there are wheels within wheels. Associates, Regina had said, and then 'friends'. The former is clearly true, but somehow she doubts the latter.

Regina shrugs her shoulders, looks bored. "Since I hear you got her in a deal," she says, "what could I possibly say to worsen her impression of you?" Rumplestiltskin says nothing, and Regina smiles again, knowing and prideful. "Well, dear," she says to Belle, "I wish you the best of luck, at least. I suspect you'll need it."

Belle nods her head but says nothing; luck, she thinks, is not the sort of thing marriages are built on. And she's not sure she likes being wished luck by such a woman.

"Perhaps I'll come again in a few weeks," Regina says to Rumplestiltskin then. "My business can wait."

"Oh, I don't doubt it can," Rumplestiltskin says, voice dropping low again, his tone knowing. He knows Regina's business, and Belle shivers a little, can't help hoping that she never finds out what business the Queen could have with her deal-making husband. She thinks of his malice, his power, of the stories she's heard about Regina.

No, she never wants to find out anything about their business.

"Take good care of her, Rumple," says the Queen finally, a parting shot. "The world is a dangerous place."

Rumplestiltskin says nothing, and Belle tries to ignore the implied threat, tries to remember that there is _nobody_ more powerful than Rumplestiltskin, that he's made it plain he won't allow harm to come to her.

She tries to remember it until Regina is gone from the hall, until she hears the slam of the great front doors and then, dimly, the rattle of a carriage. And then Rumplestiltskin turns, takes two great strides towards her and gathers her into his arms.

She hides her face against his shoulder, against his high collar. She sags against him, lets herself be comforted by his warmth and his strength. She doesn't quite sob, but she's shaking, has to take great gulps of air.

"You're quite safe, dearie," he soothes her, a hand stroking through the wayward mess of her hair. "Hush now, I'd not let her harm you."

"I – I know that," Belle mumbles, but she doesn't pull away from him, can't bring herself to lift her head from his shoulder. "I know you wouldn't." She knows it down to her bones, with every fibre of her being. She knows he wouldn't let Regina so much as touch a hair on her head, and it's both reassuring and terrifying to realise how deeply she trusts him.

She trusts him.

"You know who she is," Rumplestiltskin murmurs, and it's not quite a question but Belle manages a nod anyway. "As long as you're in the castle or grounds," he continues, "she cannot harm you."

"But elsewhere," says Belle, and lifts her head, looks at him. She thinks of the town, of his promise that she should visit again. Rumplestiltskin is scowling fiercely, but it's not directed at her, so she lifts a hand, cups his cheek and strokes her thumb across his skin. It makes his scowl fade, softening the lines of his face. It makes Belle feel more able to voice her fears. "She would harm me, then?" she asks. "She came here to see me."

"She did," Rumplestiltskin confirms. There's a tightness to him, even though his scowl is gone; something that speaks of anger and perhaps of fear. Belle can't imagine that Rumplestiltskin is afraid of Regina – she's powerful, but he is more so, he is powerful beyond imagining. "She had no deal to make today," he adds.

"Do you often make deals with her?" Belle asks, thoughtless for a moment, and Rumplestiltskin gives her a thin smile, inclines his head, and Belle silences any further questions.

"I make deals with all manner of people, dearie," he says. She doesn't like him calling her that, not when he's just used the same term for the queen, but she doesn't rebuke him for it, keeps her lips tightly pressed together. "Regina is…" He searches for the word, mouth twisting in a thoughtful frown. Belle doesn't move her hand from his cheek, enjoying the simple contact, and he doesn't pull away from her although his eyes drift elsewhere, focus on something unseen.

"Regina is necessary," he says at last. "There are things…" He trails off, refocuses on her. "Of little importance," he says, and she thinks it's the first time he's lied to her. It's not even a carefully-crafted lie, it's spoken so brusquely that Belle cannot believe the words.

She doesn't think he's ever lied to her before, or at least not like this. She doesn't like it, and she drops her hand, lowers her gaze. It's none of her business, of course, but he doesn't have to _lie_ to her. He could have simply remained silent, refused to answer. She thinks that would have been easier to bear.

"I'd better get back to work," she says then, abrupt, unable to hide her unhappiness. "The windows won't clean – well," she interrupts herself, "I suppose they would clean themselves. But I like the work."

"As you wish," Rumplestiltskin says, and he's frowning a little as he releases her and then takes a step away from her. He doesn't understand why she's upset, perhaps – or perhaps it's something else, perhaps he's not frowning at her at all. Belle doesn't quite care at the moment, she decides, and she turns back to the window and the spilled bucket and begins to mop up the water.

Rumplestiltskin's footsteps echo in her ears as he leaves her.


	32. Chapter 32

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

When he comes to her that night, Belle is sitting beside her fire nursing her offended pride. She does not refuse him entry to her rooms, but she has no great desire to share her bed this night, and she does not move when he enters and closes the door behind him. He comes to her, kneels before her in a way that she thinks he would never do with anyone else. That comforts her, a little, and she doesn't resist when he takes her hands in his and kisses her palms.

"So quiet, my lady," he observes. "You were quiet at supper, too. I've displeased you?"

"No," Belle denies at once, then stops, ashamed, for she has no reason to lie to him – no reason to think he'll be angry with her, for he's asked the question and will expect a truthful answer. "Well, yes," she admits. "A little." She holds her breath, watches his face for any sign of displeasure, but she sees only thoughtfulness. He's silent, waiting for her to elaborate, and Belle struggles to find the right words.

"I wish," she says at last, because it's the safest thing she can think of to say, "that I had not met the queen wearing my oldest, shabbiest dress and cleaning the windows." Rumplestiltskin laughs, but it's not too high, not too cruel, and Belle relaxes just a little. "She asked," she confides, "whether I was your wife or your maid. It was humiliating." He opens his mouth to say something but Belle squeezes his hands, speaks first. "You know clothing is important," she says gently. "Why else do you wear that coat? Impressions matter, Rumplestiltskin. You know that."

"I suppose they do," he says, a concession. He looks at their joined hands, rubs his thumb across her wedding ring. "Well, if she comes again, I'll warn you, dearie," he says. "Will that do you?"

"Do you always know when she comes?" Belle asks, and he shrugs a shoulder, says nothing. No, then, but he'll warn her if he can. It's something, Belle supposes, if perhaps not quite as reassuring as she'd like. "Thank you," she says anyway, and he nods, lifts his eyes to meet her gaze. She tries to smile, lifts his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. She thinks he wants more from her, thinks he knows that there's more troubling her, but she has no wish to sour the evening. She won't lie, if he asks – but she doesn't think he will ask. She doesn't think he wants to know, not really, not when he must know she's displeased with him.

"Am I welcomed, then?" he asks, and there's a smirk playing about his mouth, but she doesn't think he's as confident as he projects. She knows him a little better now than she had a month ago, and she knows a little more of his masks.

She must tread carefully, and Belle isn't quite sure how to do that, what to say. She doesn't know if it's permitted for a wife to refuse her husband, on occasion – and she has no desire for it, tonight. The wanting of the past three nights, of this afternoon, has fled inexplicably, and although she wishes to please him she feels none of the urges that had, three nights before, led her to welcome him into her bed.

But her hesitance speaks for her; Rumplestiltskin hums, turns her hands so her palms are upwards. He traces his finger across the lines of her palm, almost ticklish except for the slight scrape of his nail.

"You have only to say so," he says, mild and conversational so she can't tell if he's offended. "Surely you no longer believe I would force you?"

"No – oh, no!" Belle exclaims at once, and she tugs her hands from his so she can cup his face between her hands. His gaze flickers across her face and then away, and she thinks he _is_ offended, a little; she must make that right, and she leans forward to the man kneeling at her feet and kisses his forehead gently, tenderly. "No," she murmurs. "Of course I don't think that." She leans back in her chair, shakes her head, feels horribly helpless and wrong. "I…am out of sorts, tonight," she says. "I'm sorry. Is – is a wife permitted to say no?"

"My wife is," he says simply, and he turns his face, kisses her palm. "You don't need to apologise to me, dear one," he murmurs, and his distraction is evident by the endearment – so far he's only used it in her bed. "Shall I leave you, then?" he asks as Belle lowers her hands, and when she shakes her head he offers her a small, genuine smile. He seats himself more comfortably, cross-legged on the floor like a child, and it makes Belle smile. He fidgets his fingers, as if in search of some occupation, but after a moment he settles into stillness.

"Should you like to go to town again, my lady?" Rumplestiltskin asks her then, changing the subject entirely, and she's grateful for that, if perhaps not quite grateful for the question itself, given their earlier visitor and the thinly-veiled threat.

"I suppose so," she says slowly, and she bites her lip as she thinks about it, of the pleasure of going to market and seeing other people, and of the idea, new to her, that going out might not be safe.

She has heard so many stories of Regina, and before she'd married Rumplestiltskin, she's not sure she could have chosen between them for fear and power and darkness.

"Well, I'll not force you," he says, a mocking edge to his voice, and it makes Belle shake herself, all too aware of how precious the idea of going to the town is to her.

"Of course I should like to go," she says, with as much dignity as she can muster. He's looking at her narrowed eyes, a smirk twisting at his lips, and Belle can't quite stifle her irritation. "You know I would like to," she tells him. "Don't tease me, it isn't nice."

"I'm not nice," he reminds her, and shrugs his shoulders. "Not too scared then, dearie?"

Belle ponders that for a moment, head tilted to one side, and Rumplestiltskin waits for her answer, still with that amused expression on his face. She can never quite decide whether she dislikes it when he looks at her like that, as if he knows her thoughts before she does and finds them amusing. There's an amount of irritation, it's true, but there's also something of comfort to it; to being known so well, even by someone so new to her.

"I'm not afraid," she says at last. The amusement disappears then, subsumed by satisfaction, glittering in his eyes and the glint of bared teeth, and Belle laughs suddenly. "You wouldn't have me be frightened," she says. "You want me bold." He says nothing in response, but his smile is secretive, pleased. She's right, he likes her unafraid, and it makes Belle determined to go without fear to the town, when he allows her to go.

She's determined to live up to it – whether it's his belief in her or an expectation, she's determined to be unafraid, as he wishes for his wife. She wants to be a good wife for him, and it's easier when she sees what it is he wants from her, when he reveals through a word or a gesture the things about her that please him.

She wants him to grow to care for her, as she is growing to care for him. He's contented, he's said as much, but she would like more from her marriage than contentment. She'd never expected to hope for more, from Gaston or from Rumplestiltskin, but she hopes now.

"Next market day, perhaps," Rumplestiltskin says then, idly, drawing her from her thoughts. "Unless I'm called away."

"Do people call for you often, then?" Belle asks, leaning back in her chair, watching the firelight flicker over the odd hues of his skin, highlighting tiny flecks of gold, shadows constantly shifting and moving so at one moment she can see his eyes, and in the next moment only his bright, sly smile.

"Reasonably often," he says. "Enough to keep me in business." Business; he calls deal-making business. It's his trade, she supposes, for lack of anything else to call it. He sells his magic, trades it away in deals for magical artefacts or wooden dolls – or unwanted wives. "I think," says Rumplestiltskin contemplatively then, glancing away from her for a moment and smiling a smug, satisfied smile, "that I shall have a little more of that, in the future."

"Business?"

"Hm." Rumplestiltskin rearranges himself then, turns so he can lean back against the chair with his head resting on her knee. Belle holds her breath for a moment, and then gently reaches out her hand, strokes the softness of his hair. "Regina came to see you," he continues, "but she has much to occupy her mind. I'm rather surprised she took the time to confirm the rumours." He lifts his head to turn and flash a grin at her, something dark and triumphant lurking behind the glittering amusement. "I think you should be flattered, dearie. It takes a great deal to distract her from Snow White, these days."

Belle considers her words for a moment as Rumplestiltskin rests his head against her knee once again. He knows more of Regina and Snow than she does, and she's curious, but she's not sure it's the right moment to ask. He wouldn't refuse to answer, she thinks, but she doesn't want to speak of Regina, not really.

She strokes his hair, and the silence is comfortable. Belle thinks of the promised trip to town, and of the goods she'd seen in the market that perhaps she will buy when she goes; she thinks of a new recipe she'd like to try; she thinks of the warmth of him against her, and the simple pleasure of being close to him like this.

Finally he stirs, lifts his head and dislodges her hand.

"I'll leave you now," he says. "It's late. I'm keeping you from your rest."

Belle is unaccountably disappointed; she still lacks a desire for the acts of the marriage bed, but she's enjoyed sitting with him like this, and wishes he'd stay.

She doesn't quite dare ask for him to remain, though, because he has not stayed with her, for the past few nights. He stays beside her, holding her in his arms, until she falls asleep. But every morning she has awoken alone, with cold sheets beside her betraying his long absence from her side.

"Alright," she says instead, and watches as he rises gracefully to his feet. He turns, looks down at her with a strange expression, a strange lifting of his eyebrows and twisting of his lips that she hasn't seen before. She wonders what it means, bites her lip for a moment as she looks up at him.

Then he holds out his hands for her, bowing his head, and Belle forgets the oddness, smiles and accepts his help to get up. He tugs her towards him and she almost overbalances, falls into him and laughs at herself.

"My clumsy wife," he says, and it's warm and even _affectionate_, and it makes Belle's laughter fade as she looks at him. He holds her close, bends his head to kiss her, and she leans into him and finds fresh delights in kissing him. He is gentle, soft, and Belle lifts her arms around him, unwilling to part even though she still feels no urgent desire for him, no need to feel the pleasures he's shown her in their marriage bed.

They part, and Belle leans against him, closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Go to bed, my lady," he says, and he's laughing at her, but not unkindly. "Or will you fall over if I let you go, hm?"

"I think I will," Belle decides, and it's more to see what he will do than from any overwhelming fatigue. He laughs again, and she can feel it rumbling in his chest. Belle smiles into his collar. She likes when he laughs, when it's a laugh like this – real, genuine, not the high-pitched giggle that signals malicious amusement or gleeful pleasure. This is something else, something that she thinks is only for her.

Or perhaps she only hopes it.

"Shall I carry you, then?" he teases. "All of a dozen paces?"

"I suppose not," she says. A sudden yawn takes her by surprise, and she lifts her head, takes a step away from Rumplestiltskin. She hesitates then, still wishing he would stay with her and still sure that asking him to stay would be futile. If he wished to stay, she reasons to herself, he would have stayed on any of the last few nights. Her 'no' tonight will hardly provide any inducement for him to stay now.

Rumplestiltskin nods, sketches a bow. "Goodnight, then, my lady," he says, and she smiles again, charmed as ever by the odd flashes of gentle manners. She wonders whether the gentleman she sees sometimes is truer than his theatrical menace, whether he wears the mantle of deal-maker as he wears his dragon-skin coat, to impress and to frighten – or whether he is trying to be something other than himself for her, to avoid scaring her and to coax her into happiness and contentment here.

She wonders if it matters, for she doesn't think she can ever forget the menacing deal-maker, the terror of his anger, and yet she cares for him, desires him, just as if he were always the gentleman she sometimes sees.

She wonders what that makes her, to see the twisted darkness in him and yet still…

She smiles, shaking herself free of such thoughts, and dips a curtsey in response to his bow.

"Goodnight, my husband," she says, glad they're parting for the night on better terms than otherwise might have been. She had not liked the idea of going to sleep whilst still annoyed with him – and whilst the annoyance is still there, for she dislikes being lied to, it is a small enough thing, and she has been consoled by his quiet companionship this evening, and by the way he accepted without question her denial of his affections in her bed.

"Sleep well," he says, and he darts forward, presses a kiss to her forehead and then leaves her room quickly, as if embarrassed by the gesture. But Belle is pleased by it, and she smiles as she goes around the room to blow out the candles before moving through to her bedroom to prepare for a night alone.


	33. Chapter 33

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Things are easier the next day, returning to the happiness that they'd begun to share before Regina's visit. Belle makes a determined effort to forget she'd even seen Regina, and for his part Rumplestiltskin is attentive, if prone to teasing her.

He returns to her bed that night, and Belle is pleased that she welcomes his attentions once more, although she still feels a little oddness, a little strangeness. Her body feels tender in new and differing ways, and she can't understand why a touch to her breast, that three days ago had been pleasurable, is now verging on the point of painful.

Still, she is happy, and he seems so too, holding her so close afterwards that she can rest her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

The next morning he brings her breakfast in bed, and Belle's delight is unbounded until she sees the sheepish, slightly guilty expression on his face. Her heart sinks then, and for a moment she busies herself in propping herself up against her pillows.

"You're going away, then?" she asks, aiming for lightness but not quite managing it. He nods, settles the tray carefully on her lap and then lounges beside her on the bed, cat-like. Belle ignores the food, eggs and bread, but lifts the cup of tea and sips it while she thinks of what to say.

"Deals to be struck," says Rumplestiltskin, when the silence stretches out just a little too long. "This one may take some time." He grins, a twisting, menacing thing, and Belle schools her expression to blankness and drinks her tea. "I brought a son for a king, once," he says. "And now the son is…departed."

Dead, he means, and Belle frowns, disturbed by a sudden thought.

"Can magic bring back the dead, then?" she asks. "Is that what he's asked for?"

"Magic is powerful, dearie, but what's dead is dead." He reaches up, flicks his fingers gently against her nose. "Worry not. Necromancy is a story, nothing more."

"Most stories have a beginning," Belle points out, but he isn't lying to her, so she's reassured. "What does the king want, then?"

"A dragon-slayer," says Rumplestiltskin, and he giggles, reaches out to steal one of her boiled eggs. He sits up, cross-legged on the bed, and Belle has to grab hold of the tray to keep it from dislodging. He peels the shell from the egg with nimble fingers, and she's oddly fascinated for a moment before she drags her attention back to his words.

"Will you slay the dragon, then?" she asks, and smiles as she finishes her tea. "For a new coat, perhaps?"

"Hardly," he scoffs, and he pauses just before the egg reaches his mouth, tilts his head as he looks at her. "My coat is perfectly fine," he says, a trifle offended but she thinks it's for show, not genuine. "I hardly need another."

"As you say," says Belle, her smile widening. "Then what?"

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asks in return, and Belle shrugs, reaches out for a piece of bread, spreads it with honey. She's not particularly hungry, but he's brought her breakfast, and she wouldn't dream of turning it away. "Luckily for King George," Rumplestiltskin continues when she's taken a bite, "the son was not an only child."

Belle nods, comprehension dawning, even though she's not sure she likes the idea of substituting one son for another – another son who, surely, would be different in temperament as well as looks, raised in a different environment and with different parents. She knows of King George, of course – and his son, Prince James. She's never met either, but even on the distant borders of her father's lands, a well-bred young noblewoman had been expected to know the lineage of each of the royal houses.

She had not heard that the prince had died, though; that must be a recent development.

"I see," she says. "So you'll offer the other son. But what will you offer the son, to go to King George?"

"I? I'll offer nothing." He grins, baring teeth – the menacing grin of a predator that knows his prey intimately, knows that what he seeks will behave exactly as he presumes. "King George will offer enough, I'm sure. He's the one who wants the boy, after all. I'll simply be a…facilitator."

"And will King George know what to offer?" Belle is sure at any moment he'll decide to stop answering her questions, but she's finding it strangely fascinating, this insight into the deals he makes. And this deal seems less…less self-serving, somehow, than she'd previously assumed all his deals to be. Perhaps King George's motives are not pure, perhaps he should grieve for his loss and find another dragon-slayer, but Rumplestiltskin seems to have no great investment in this deal.

She cannot understand why he would make it, if there is nothing in it for him. But of course, there'd been little in her own deal for him – he's admitted to her that he'd had no desire for a wife.

"Why, dearie, are you intending to become apprentice as well as cook and maid?" Rumplestiltskin asks, teasing her, and Belle laughs, shakes her head.

"No," she says. "My days are busy enough without magic complicating things further." She finishes her bread, licks a trail of honey from her finger. Rumplestiltskin reaches out and catches at her hand, intent suddenly, and he brings her hand to his mouth, sucks at the finger until it's clean. Belle takes a breath, unable to look away from the sight of it. His tongue swirls around the pad of her finger, and she shivers.

He releases her, offers a pleased smile.

"It may take a little longer than I'd like," he says. "But not too long, I hope."

"Well," says Belle, trying to recover her wits, "I will be waiting for you." She would like to kiss him, to say goodbye properly now that she can, now that she _wants_ to kiss him goodbye. But her breakfast tray is precariously perched on her lap, and she's no wish to change the sheets, as she'll have to if she spills bread and honey and egg shells all over the bed.

She thinks he wants the same; he leans a little closer, and then casts a regretful glance at the tray in her lap.

"Ah, well," he says with a sigh. "I'd best be off, then."

"Yes," says Belle, and she smiles to soften her words. It's his own fault, really, for bringing her the tray – although she appreciates the gesture more than she could possibly express to him. "Go on, then," she says playfully, and Rumplestiltskin clutches his hands to his chest, rolls off the bed and rises gracefully to his feet.

"I am dismissed," he says dramatically, and she laughs as he intends for her to laugh. "Very well, my lady," he says with a low bow. "Until my return."

He turns and almost skips out of the room, pausing to mutter a curse when the three kittens tumble into the room and almost cause him to trip. Belle hides more laughter, sure he won't appreciate it, and when the kittens scramble onto the bed she lifts one and kisses its forehead. She likes seeing him off-guard, likes seeing him falter. It reminds her that there's man in him as well as monster, and it's a private amusement, of the sort she knows he has sometimes from things she does or says.

Then her bladder complains, and Belle makes a face, drops the kitten onto the bed and carefully lifts the tray off her lap and onto the floor. She hurries through to the wash room to use the chamber pot, and then washes her face at the wash stand. It feels a little warmer today, and when she returns to her bedroom and pulls the curtain aside she can see the sun high in the sky. The snow is too hard to melt with one milder day, but the sun makes her feel cheerful, even with Rumplestiltskin's absence stretching out ahead of her.

She wishes he'd estimated how long he would be, as he has before, but perhaps he simply doesn't know how long this deal will take. It would make little difference to how she fills her days without him, but she would like to know when to expect him back.

Still, she has plenty to do, enough work to keep herself busy no matter how long it is before he returns. There is still more than enough cleaning in the library to keep her busy for weeks yet, and she still hasn't finished cleaning all the windows in the great hall.

She has mending to do, as well. Several of her stockings require darning – occupation for an evening, perhaps, beside the fire in her sitting room. She dislikes darning, a tedious but necessary chore, and so she's been putting it off for too many days now, preferring the contentment of reading new books taken from the library.

Preferring other occupation as well, the past few evenings, and those activities are still new enough to her to make her blush. Darning is scarcely a replacement for her husband's company, now that she has discovered the pleasure as well as the duty of the marriage bed.

Belle hurries to dress, forcing action to distract her mind from remembering things that, in her husband's absence, are best left unremembered. She's grown adept at lacing her own corset and dresses in the month since her arrival, has found the knack of managing the laces at her back without a maid to help her. Without a mirror, of course, she has no clear idea of _how_ well she's managing, but at least her corsets no longer feel loose and her dresses, accordingly, are no longer tight.

Her breasts are still tender, though, and she hisses when she pulls her laces tight. She can't understand it; she's sometimes had a little tenderness with her monthly cycle, but never this much.

She pauses then, counts back days, and then shakes her head. She's bled since coming to the Dark Castle, and she can't be due another for another week at least.

But it's so easy to lose track of days here in the castle. She has candles to mark her hours by, but nothing to mark her weeks or months. Not like in her father's castle, when market day had come and gone each week, with a bigger one every four weeks, and tasks and duties allotted to each day to help mark the time between. The bells, too, had sounded out each week to call the villagers to worship.

Belle shivers; she dislikes the clerics, their close-minded judgements and their ever-lasting reproaches against any vice they perceived in those around them. Lust, vanity, gluttony – few people had escaped their censure. Maurice had never liked them either, she knows, but there is little choice, after all. The clerics are everywhere, across all the kingdoms, and it isn't wise to go against them.

She wonders, idly, what Rumplestiltskin thinks of the clerics. She thinks he must dislike them, for they have no love of magic in any form, let alone such dark magic.

Not that all his magic is dark; much of it, she knows, simply _is_. Intention is everything, he'd told her, and there can be little darkness in the lighting of a candle, the emptying of a chamber pot.

The clatter of crockery against the floor disturbs her from her thoughts, and Belle laughs as she goes to chase away the boldest kitten from her empty cup. She takes the tray through to her sitting room before returning to finish dressing. She takes little care over her appearance today, with nobody to see her – no husband to impress, no admiring glances to store away in her heart. She uses her gold ribbon, though, the ribbon that had been Rumplestiltskin's first gift to her, and she wears one of the dresses he'd brought her as well.

It comforts her, in his absence, to wear the things he has given her. It makes something inside her feel warm and cared for, and she marvels at the feeling when she remembers how scared she had been just a month ago.

She marvels at how she's grown to care for him, when she'd never expected to have affection or – she dares to think it, now when he is nowhere near to guess at her thoughts or tease her for anything she reveals through her expression – or perhaps even more than that.

It's too soon, Belle reminds herself, and she must not confuse desire for anything more than that. She must be pleased that she and her husband desire each other, without hoping that desire means more, means anything like attachment. She knows of women who have made such a mistake, after all. There had been a young girl in her father's village who had fallen for a passing craftsman. The man had professed love, but as soon as the girl had believed his promises of love, of forever, of happily ever after…

As soon as she'd gone to bed with him, he'd left. And the girl had been left alone, shunned by polite society, and soon enough with a child to shelter and feed and clothe, as well.

Belle remembers it vividly; in the end the poor girl had been forced to leave the village, to leave her family and all she'd ever known. Her hope, she'd confided to Belle when Belle had, with her father's blessing, taken the girl a letter of introduction for a town some distance away where Maurice had some connections, was to start afresh and claim her husband had been killed in the ogre wars.

Belle hadn't blamed her then for the lie, and she didn't blame her now. But it was a lesson she'd taken to heart, and she must not allow herself to forget it now.

She touches her stomach then, thoughtful. She knows so little of pregnancy, really; it was knowledge forbidden to her, before her marriage. And now there is nobody to ask. She cannot write to Laura to ask her advice – and she spares a brief thought for the fact that she probably will not receive any letters until Rumplestiltskin returns. She can't write it down, couldn't possibly put pen to paper and ask how soon a woman might fall pregnant, how to tell if a child has been conceived.

Such questions she might be able to ask her friend if they were together, sitting in Laura's kitchen or her own solar. But not in writing. She can't possibly do it. And there is nobody here to ask, nobody to confide in.

Anyway, Belle tells herself, forcing a smile even though there's nobody to see it, it's hardly likely. They've only had five nights together since he first came to her bed, she's sure the chances of it are slim. The tenderness she feels is probably because she will bleed soon, and perhaps she's miscounted the days and it is due sooner than she thinks.

There's no use thinking of it further, so Belle does her best to push the thoughts aside and focus on what she'll do today. But it isn't as easy as she'd like, and the suspicion nags at her as she collects her breakfast tray and takes it down to the kitchen, trailed by her three kittens.


	34. Chapter 34

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin does not return for four nights, the longest he's left her since she came here as his wife, and by the time he returns Belle feels a little crazed from the isolation.

She's kept herself busy, of course. The library is progressing nicely – she cleaned the windows there once she'd finished the windows in the great hall. The latter had taken a whole day, and she'd been sore and aching by the time she was done. All her clothes are neatly mended, and she's reorganised the larder to make it seem more her own.

She's kept busy, but for four days there has been a nagging thought in her mind, and for four days Belle has waited for her monthly bleeding. It doesn't matter how much she tells herself it's a foolish thought, the thought will not leave her, and with no company to distract her, Belle has had plenty of time to dwell on it.

Rumplestiltskin reappears just after breakfast on the fifth day, startling Belle as she stands at the kitchen table kneading bread. His arms come around her waist from behind, and Belle shrieks in surprise, whirls around and would topple over but for his hands steadying her.

"Don't _do_ that," she scolds, and he's laughing at her, all glittering eyes and wide grin. Belle's heart is pounding in her chest from the surprise, and she pokes his shoulder with her finger. "You enjoy that," she accuses, and Rumplestiltskin shrugs.

"Perhaps," he says, and dips his head to kiss her. Belle's irritation melts away as they kiss, warmth and tongues and a slow burn through her body; she's missed him. She's missed this, even though they'd only shared kisses for a few short days before he had been called away.

She's breathless when at last he withdraws, breathless and smiling, and his grin has faded into something softer.

"Welcome home," Belle says, and she likes the way that sounds. She likes calling this place home, she realises, and perhaps that should be more of a shock than it is.

"Home," murmurs Rumplestiltskin, and he's quizzical, frowning at his own thoughts. "Yes. I…you missed me, then?" His expression turns hopeful, eyes a little wide as he searches her face. Belle nods, ducks her head.

"Of course I did," she says softly. She doesn't asked if he's missed her; it doesn't seem right, somehow, when he's looking at her in such a way. Vulnerable, almost, as if he can scarcely believe she's real. There's no need to make him feel more vulnerable, and equally no need to hurry him back into a more casual, hardened mood.

Instead she wraps her arms around him, lifts herself up and kisses him again. He appreciates her boldness, hums into her mouth and pulls her close to him. He slides a hand into her hair, tugs at her ribbon until it comes free and her hair is tumbling over her shoulders. Belle breaks away from him to laugh, and he kisses her jaw, nuzzles at her throat.

"Dear one," he murmurs, and Belle tilts her head back, feels his teeth against her pulse and inhales shakily. And then, abruptly, he lets her go and takes a step backwards. Belle leans back against the sink, a little dazed, and she looks at him, finds him smirking a little at her. Flustered, she lifts a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders.

"What – what's wrong?" she asks, and he shakes his head, flourishes a hand.

"Wrong?" he says. "Nothing's wrong, dearie. Time enough for that later. I believe I promised you a trip to town on market day."

"I – " Belle doesn't know what she means to say, closes her mouth and stares at him while she tries to formulate her thoughts. Rumplestiltskin rocks on his heels, tilts his head as he watches her. "Yes," she says at last, "you did, but – but you've just got back!"

"Oh, have you changed your mind about going?"

She opens her mouth to protest, but catches the glint in his eye and stops herself before she can rise to the bait. He's teasing her, and Belle huffs a reluctant laugh, turns to find her ribbon.

"Alright," she says. "Town." She finds the ribbon in the sink, fishes it out of the water with a sigh. It's drenched, of course, and there's no way she can wear it into town – no way she can appear at the market looking anything less than her best. "I'll just run up and tidy my hair," she says, but Rumplestiltskin steps close to her, plucks the sodden ribbon from her hand.

"No need," he says. He shakes the ribbon, and a tendril of dark smoke ripples across it. In a moment the ribbon is dry, and Belle stands still while Rumplestiltskin ties her hair back once more. "There," he murmurs. "Perfect."

Belle can't think of anything to say to that, so she turns around and gives him a quick, chaste kiss.

"Then I just need my cloak," she says, and slips away from him, retrieves the garment from the hook beside the kitchen door. She settles her cloak into place, takes his offered arm, and he leads her up through the castle to the front doors. The carriage is waiting for them, the white horses stamping impatiently, their breath visible in the frosty air. Rumplestiltskin opens the door and helps her up, but he doesn't follow her in.

"Aren't you coming?" Belle asks in some confusion, for although he'd said she could go to town, she'd never dreamed he would allow her to go alone. And, in truth, she's a little afraid of it after meeting Regina, even though these are Rumplestiltskin's lands, even though the townspeople will, she's sure, protect her if necessary.

It's not a great fear, just a small kernel of ice in her heart. Enough to make her wish he would accompany her, although she can't help but be pleased that he trusts her enough to let her go alone.

"Not this time, my lady," he says, and he quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head. "You'll do fine by yourself. They'll not dare hurt you. Or," he adds, holding out a purse of money for her to take, "cheat you."

"Last time they barely took my money," Belle says, more for something to say than from any need to say it. "Alright, then," she says after a moment, reluctant. "But you've only just come home – I don't want…" She trails off, unable to say what she wants or doesn't want – unable to admit to him that she's missed him, that she wishes to spend time with him now, not be parted for longer even though it means she can go to town, that she is trusted.

The corner of his mouth lifts, as if he's trying not to smile. "I have work that cannot wait," he says, "and you are…a distraction."

"Oh!" That puts a different complexion on things, and Belle fights her own smile now. It's perhaps vain, perhaps prideful, but it pleases her to hear that – to hear that she is a distraction for him, that she is pleasing enough to him to _be_ a distraction. "Well," she says, and she settles herself properly on the bench of the carriage, fusses with her skirts to hide her smile. "I'll see you later, then."

"The carriage will bring you back when you wish it," he says. "Knock on the roof when you're ready to go." He hesitates, his hand on the door, and Belle waits patiently. "My work," he says at last, "should be finished by midday."

"I'll be sure to be back in time for lunch, then," says Belle, and he nods, closes the door without a further word of farewell. Belle waits for a moment, watching him retreat up the steps to the castle doors, and then she knocks on the carriage roof.

The journey to town seems shorter than before, somehow, perhaps because last time Belle had undertaken it full of dread and fear, and now she's simply pleased to be out of the castle, and pleased to be trusted to leave and return again. It seems barely a few minutes before the carriage reaches the outskirts of the town, and without Rumplestiltskin to stop her, Belle watches through the window. She sees people working, sees the gradual increase of buildings – she sees people reacting to the carriage, as well, a ripple of awareness, of acknowledgement.

And fear too; there is fear. They fear that Rumplestiltskin is within the carriage, she knows, and she's not sure she can blame them for it. She remembers what Edith had said, that Rumplestiltskin rarely comes to town, and the townspeople must be alarmed by two visits within such a short space of time.

Hopefully when they see she is alone, their fear will abate a little. They'd been afraid of her before, when Mayor Oldfellow had escorted her around the market and introduced her to the stall-holders. Afraid, she thinks, of Rumplestiltskin's wrath should they misstep, rather than any true fear of herself.

Perhaps in time that will change.

The carriage stops at the edge of the market, and Belle opens the door and descends, looks around herself and finds people looking back at her – watching, waiting, to see if Rumplestiltskin is with her. When no dark figure follows her from the carriage they seem to relax a little, and many of them continue about their business. The hum of the market barely falters, and Belle drinks it in, the busyness and vitality of it. She feels almost dazed by it, after days of only cats for company, and weeks of barely seeing a living being beyond Rumplestiltskin.

Then she shakes herself, joins the throng – aware, always, that when people recognise her they keep a careful distance – and begins to browse the stalls. The weight of her purse tells her she has no need to stint, but she has little need of anything. Perhaps, she thinks, something will catch her eye. The mere fact of being here is enough for Belle, but she knows it would not do to spurn the town's offerings, not if she wishes them to grow accustomed to her – to grow fearless of her.

She finds Mary at her father's stand; her father is a shepherd, their wares thick, warm sheepskins. Some are made into garments – there are a pair of slippers lined with the soft wool, and Belle slips her hand inside and thinks of cold nights in the castle even as she greets Mary and asks after her health. Mary offers them to her freely, but Belle shakes her head, gives her the price asked for them.

She will not accept gifts; she knows many of these people must scrabble for every hard-earned coin, for every meal eaten. She will pay fairly, or not buy at all. Eventually Mary agrees, and when she insists on giving Belle a basket to carry her goods in, Belle doesn't refuse it.

Belle finds other things in the market as she wanders – trifles, really, things she doesn't _need_ but that she discovers she wants. Rumplestiltskin had been generous, she has plenty of coin to purchase whatever she desires, and she tries not to feel like she's squandering it when she purchase a new pen, soft yarn to continue her attempts at knitting. A small paper bag with more of the toffee and fudge that she'd been sent as a welcoming gift, from a portly woman who seems pleased when Belle expresses how she'd liked the sweets.

Edith is in the market too, selling her wares – herbs and small remedies of the sort that Belle knows, things that require no magic to make. There are other things on her stall too, things that Belle knows are made with magic, although she thinks there is little power in them. Charms and trinkets, she sees as she seizes her courage and approaches the stall. A necklace for a lovesick girl, perhaps, or a charm for a woman who is weary of childbirth.

Edith has her voice back; she nods at Belle, greets her with a murmured 'my lady'. Belle thinks she's learned from what happened, and she's glad of it even though she wishes Rumplestiltskin's display of power had been unnecessary.

The smell of the herbs is overwhelmingly strong, and Belle lifts a hand to her face, closes her eyes for a moment. She feels dizzy, feels faint; before she quite realises what's happening she is half on her knees, and strong arms are supporting her, worried voices all around.

"I'm alright," she says, and she looks up to see who's holding her up. It's Mayor Oldfellow, and in his kindly concern she finds comfort. "Thank you," she says. "I – I think I can stand now."

"A chair," he says, but not to her – he's instructing those around him, the men and women who have gathered around her. Belle wonders if she fainted, wonders if she lost consciousness for a moment, for there seem to be more people around her suddenly than there were before. "And a cup of water," Oldfellow adds, and somebody nods, a girl shoves her way through the crowd with a cup and passes it to Belle with a curtsey.

"Thank you," Belle says. "But – Master Oldfellow – I'm quite alright."

"My lady," he says, and he helps her stand, keeps his arm around her waist and at her shoulder until she's safely up and steady on her feet. "You must," he says, "forgive my caution. I should not like anything to happen to you while you are here."

She understands what he does not say; he is worried about Rumplestiltskin's reaction, when he discovers what happened. Oldfellow will give her every courtesy and kindness, will make sure she is well, and Belle knows she must accept it or risk Rumplestiltskin becoming angry. He is, she has learned, surprisingly protective of her.

A man brings a stool, and she sits and sips her water, cheeks flushed from the stares she's receiving. She's grateful when Oldfellow ushers them away,

"Well," says Edith, and Belle glances up, across the stall at the old woman sitting behind her herbs and her simple magics. Edith's watching her with a peculiar expression, half-astonished and half-gratified, and Belle can't quite make it out. "That was soon enough, mistress. I see I was wrong."

"Wrong?" Belle questions, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"About you preventing it," says Edith, pointedly. Belle stares, confused, and Edith laughs, a cackling, amused laugh that sets Belle's teeth on edge. "Most of my work's around children and child-bearing, mistress," she says. "I know when a maid's with child. You're early yet, but there's no fooling me, mistress. I know."

The cup falls from her hand; in a moment Oldfellow is by her side again, picking up the cup, asking if she's alright. Belle can't answer, can't speak, can't do anything but stare at Edith.

She must have miscounted the days, she thinks, and her thoughts are like sludge, are like treacle dripping off a spoon, slow and stupid. She must have miscounted the days. She can't remember how long it's been since she arrived at the Dark Castle, since she made her marriage vows with her father as witness. She can't remember; she must have miscounted.

Edith reaches forward, picks up a bundle of herbs and holds it out to Belle.

"For sickness," she says. "Go on, Mistress, take it. It won't bite."

"My lady?" Oldfellow queries, and when Belle glances up at him she sees his worry. He knows, he must know, why Rumplestiltskin had come to town before. He's worried, she's sure, that Edith means harm.

Belle rises to her feet. "Thank you," she says to Edith, and takes the bundle of herbs. She recognises them, knows she has more of the same in her still room box in the castle – Laura had given her some of this herb, she remembers, and so she knows it's safe, knows its use to be what Edith says. She puts the herbs into her basket, and tries to smile at Oldfellow. "Thank you, Master Oldfellow," she says. "I am quite well now, but I think I should like to go home."

"I will escort you to your carriage," he says, and offers his arm. Belle, still feeling shaken, takes it without complaint.


	35. Chapter 35

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: M

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle tries to hide her shock, her disturbed thoughts, when she returns to the castle. It's made easier for her, because Rumplestiltskin does not appear from his work room until lunch, and so Belle has several precious hours to gather herself, to hide the knowledge away deep down inside.

It's not that she wishes to lie to him about it – indeed, she will hardly be able to conceal it from him, if all she knows of pregnancy is true. Most women, she knows, have sickness with pregnancy, and while she may be able to hide a growing belly beneath corsets and dresses for a while, she will eventually need larger dresses, will have to discard her corsets.

She does not wish to lie to him, and knows to attempt to do so would be a mistake, and yet she cannot quite grasp it. She had thought of it, of course, but she had, perhaps naively, assumed it was not possible yet.

Edith may be wrong. That is the thought that means Belle cannot, will not, speak of it to Rumplestiltskin. He'd spoken of her derisively, as having small power, and Belle cannot escape the notion that Edith may be wrong. Even a skilled midwife, she knows, cannot tell such a thing so soon. Belle can only be a few days pregnant if it's true, and even a midwife who is also a witch surely cannot tell such a thing so _soon_.

If she does not bleed, she resolves, she will tell him. That's the surest sign of such a thing – even she, in her ignorance, knows that. If she does not bleed within a week, she will tell him. Because she cannot keep secrets from him, even the barest possibility of it. She'd promised herself as much, for she knows how he'd react to it.

He comes to the kitchen at lunch, when Belle is heating up leftover stew, and when she's safely away from the fire he clasps her in his arms and kisses her, as if all he ever wished to do is kiss her.

It makes guilt creep into her heart, but she hardens her resolve; she will not tell him until she is sure. She cannot forget the quiet, grieving way he'd spoken of his lost son, and she knows, as she stands here in his arms, that she cannot raise his hopes until she is absolutely certain.

"You came back early," he says when they part, when he withdraws to allow her to breathe. "Was town not to your liking?"

Belle smiles, shakes her head. "You'll think me foolish," she says, "but I…I did not wish to be gone long, in case you finished your work earlier than you thought." She can tell by the pleased glint in his eye, the way the corners of his mouth lift into the smallest of smiles, that he doesn't think her foolish, that he's pleased by it.

And it's not a lie, not quite. There's truth in her words, although she hadn't realised it until she spoke them. After long days of his absence, she does not want him to think that she preferred being at the market to being with him.

"But," she adds, "I did enjoy it." She lifts herself up, kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she says, and leaves unsaid what she's thanking him for. Then she turns, goes to the kitchen table to cut bread. "I was terribly frivolous," she tells him as he comes to sit at the table. "I bought a pair of slippers, from Mary. And a new pen."

"Ah," Rumplestiltskin says, "thank you for reminding me. You have letters." He flutters his fingers, as if intending to reach for the letters but finds them absent. "I left them upstairs," he confesses. "I'll fetch them after lunch."

Belle smiles, goes to fetch bowls and spoons, and then to pull the stew pot from the fire.

"Thank you," she says. "I wouldn't read them until later, anyway."

"They arrived while I was gone," he tells her as she joins him at the table, and he looks chagrined. "I had not anticipated that," he says. "The pigeons will come directly to you, in future."

A further kindness, more generosity, and Belle sits quietly for a long moment, finds herself unable to speak. He has shown her more trust this day than ever before, and she is repaying it by concealing from him the suspicion – the fact, perhaps – that she is with child.

She feels utterly wretched, and she can't conceal it from him. He makes a sound, rises from his chair so abruptly it almost tips over, and comes around the table to kneel at her side. He takes her hands in his, frowns up at her, and Belle struggles to conquer herself.

"Belle," he says, and his use of her name, so rare and precious, almost brings tears to her eyes. "What has upset you so?" he asks her. "Surely you want to send letters freely."

"Yes," Belle manages. "Yes. I'm sorry, I'm…" She closes her eyes, shakes her head.

"Did something happen in the town?" he asks, and there's something urgent in his voice now, something darker. "Or while I was gone?"

"No, I – " She falters again, lifts his hand and kisses it. "I'm being silly," she says. "Nothing happened while you were gone. I – I cleaned, and I played with the kittens, and I read. All very dull and boring." She opens her eyes; he's watching her, and she doesn't think she's ever seen him look so concerned before.

And that's what it is, it's concern – concern and _caring_, and it's overwhelming, because this is Rumplestiltskin, the deal-maker and trickster, and he is her husband and she – she –

She is growing to care for him more than she thought possible. And he, in turn, is growing to care for her. She is more than just the price of a deal, she thinks. Surely she's more than that, now.

"How long have I been here?" she asks suddenly. The question takes him by surprise; he raises his eyebrows, releases her hands. Belle wishes the question unsaid, but it's too late for that now.

"A month," he says, after a long pause. "Exactly a month."

And Belle had bled before she'd been here a week, she remembers. It must be three weeks since her cycle had finished, and Belle knows her body, knows what to expect of it. A month exactly, and she should have bled three days ago at least. Her monthly cycle has been steady and regular almost since her body began to prove it was adult, never late or unpredictable.

It is late now. She should have bled three days ago.

"_Belle_," says Rumplestiltskin, firm and insistent, and she tries to smile, tries to bring herself back to him. She reaches for him, and he rises onto his knees, embraces her, pets her hair. It's clear he's confused, but the comfort is freely offered, and she can't speak as she hides her face against his high collar and clutches at him.

"Dear one," he croons, and her breath hitches. She will not cry, she tells herself. There's no reason to cry, and he does not want a – what was it he'd said? A weeping, snivelling wife. She won't be that, not now, not with how far they've come.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, and she pulls away from him, wipes a hand angrily across her eyes. "I'm fine." It's not enough, it can't be enough, not with the way Rumplestiltskin looks at her, waiting with infinite patience. Belle casts around for something to say, finds words dragged from her mouth before she really has time to think them. "It's ridiculous," she says. "I think I'm just tired. I haven't slept well."

His mouth is a thin line as he looks at her, and for a moment she thinks he doesn't believe her, thinks he'll demand the truth. She's not sure what would be worse – to be discovered in a lie, or to escape detection. She hates lying to him; she'd resolved never to lie to him, after all, because of the reaction he's sure to have when he finds out the truth.

But then he smiles, bared teeth and sparkling eyes, and Belle feels something ease within her.

"Miss me, did you?" he teases, and she huffs a laugh, says nothing and lets her silence answer for her. It's true enough, though – without him beside her, she's found it extraordinarily difficult to get to sleep. "Don't cry," he says then, soft again. "I – it does not please me, dear one."

She understands what he's struggling to say, and she smiles, reaches out and kisses him. He does not like to see her cry, and it's more than his distaste for a weeping bride. He does not like it because he does not want her to be unhappy, because he is beginning to _care_ for her, and that knowledge makes it easy for Belle to push down her anxiety and her secret hope and fear.

She kisses him, and he holds her close again, lifts a hand to her face. It's gentle, this kiss, and full of things she can't say, things she thinks he will never say. His mouth is soft against hers, swallowing her hum of pleasure when his tongue flicks out to taste her. She closes her eyes to better concentrate on the feelings, on his mouth at hers and his fingers fluttering against her cheek.

And then it deepens, and she's not sure whether it's at her instigation or his, but he makes a sound and nudges her knees apart so he can come even closer to her. Chest to chest, and he stops kissing her when she's gasping for air, only to nuzzle at her neck, nip at her throat, his clever tongue lapping at the grazes he leaves.

Belle tilts her head back, inhales. Heat builds in her, a spark that, ten days ago, she'd had no idea could exist. Rumplestiltskin mouths at her skin, across the flesh bared by the neckline of her gown, comes back to kiss her once more. She's dizzy from breathlessness, her corset a tight restriction, but she wouldn't stop this for anything.

Then she feels his hand at her ankle, sliding up her leg, warm through her stocking. She breaks away from him, finds him watching her with a wicked smirk. Wicked but not cruel, not malicious – simply amused, devilish, as if he enjoys shocking her.

"It – it's broad daylight!" Belle says, not quite a protest, for she's thought of it before – thought of lying in her bed in the light, when she can see him above her, see the body that she's coming to learn through touch. Not a protest, and it's not what she means to say, anyway. It's not the daylight she's opposed to, it's their location.

Such things, she thinks, are surely meant only for the bed? And yet she knows that look on his face, knows it already and it makes her shiver deliciously.

"Say no, then," he returns, and his smirk remains in place. He knows she won't refuse him, not now, and his hand continues its travels up her leg. His fingers tickle at the back of her knee and she gives a breathless laugh, shakes her head and gives no further word of protest.

He kisses her again, distracting her just enough, teeth and tongues and shared laughter at their own eagerness. Belle forgets her objections, forgets that they are not in a bed, steadies herself with her hands on his shoulders and forgets all else but kissing him.

Then, quite suddenly, he brings his hand from beneath her skirt, takes her by the waist and rises, picking her up as he stands. Belle gives an undignified shriek and clutches at his shoulders; in a moment he's sitting in her place on the chair, and she's in his lap.

"What –" Belle cuts herself off as he lifts her skirts, digs her fingers into his shoulders as his hand ghosts across her drawers, across the place that, even through cloth, makes her shiver, makes her arch up into his touch. "Oh," she breathes, and Rumplestiltskin huffs a laugh, kisses her again even as his fingers rub against her.

"Like this, dear one, hm?" he murmurs against her mouth.

She's not sure what 'this' means; she's so little experience of such things. But his hand is rubbing against her, flicking against the little nub of nerves that sends such waves of pleasure rippling over her, and it's more than she can do to speak. Rumplestiltskin seems to recognise that; he laughs again, gentle and without any hint of mocking.

Then his hand leaves her, quests higher beneath her skirts, and he tugs at the laces of her drawers. Belle lifts herself from his lap, wriggles free from the undergarments, and then he guides her back onto his lap – astride him this time, skirts hitched up around her waist.

Her face is hot; she can't imagine what she looks like. But Rumplestiltskin doesn't seem to care – indeed he seems to like the sight of her, and she can feel how he desires her, the hardness of him through his trousers.

He insinuates a hand between them, friction at her sensitive flesh, and then he tugs at the laces of his trousers, tries to unknot them. He can't do it with one hand, and Belle finds her embarrassment easing in his frustration. It makes her feel more comfortable, somehow, to see how his impatience makes him clumsy, and she kisses him again before she gently pushes his hand aside and undoes the knot herself. The lace falls easily from its holes then, and in the light of the kitchen Belle can see what she's only felt before.

It's strange, and she has no name for the hard length of him. She could ask, but she's no wish to distract him now, no wish to make him laugh at her innocence, her ignorance.

Belle glances up at him, his watchful eyes and the softness of his mouth as he gazes at her and waits for her to say something, to do something. He is, she thinks suddenly, so very afraid. He's afraid of her – or perhaps not of her, perhaps he's afraid of her reactions, perhaps he's afraid…

She's not sure what he's afraid of, but there is something in the way Rumplestiltskin looks at her that makes her absolutely certain that he _is_ afraid.

"Like this?" she asks, her voice more nervous than she intended, and she touches him, finds moisture at the tip of the hardness and circles it with her thumb.

Rumplestiltskin groans, flings his head back, and his hips jerk just a little. His hands keep her steady in his lap – her feet are barely touching the floor, not enough to give her any stability – but she stops touching him at once, startled by the reaction.

"Belle," he hisses, "my little wanton. No, dear, one," he says then, "like this."

He lifts her up, grasps her by the waist and _lifts_ her as if she weighs nothing more than a feather, and then he guides her down onto him. The angle is strange, and deep, and more intense than anything she's felt before, and Belle can't breathe, can't speak, can't do anything but follow the rocking motion he sets for them and cling onto him as he shows her new pleasure.

It's only afterwards, when she's boneless in his lap, her head resting on her shoulder and sticky dampness between her thighs, that she remembers what she had tried to conceal for him.

Tomorrow, she tells herself. If there's no bleeding by tomorrow, she will speak to him then.


	36. Chapter 36

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Note: Quick note on pregnancy. I have leaned more than a little on my mother's experiences during her pregnancies, here. Whilst I'm very aware that she's an oddity, she was aware of each pregnancy within a week because she's so sensitive to hormonal changes. On the other end of the spectrum are women who don't know they're pregnant until they go into labour: both are extremes, both are possible.

* * *

Belle does not bleed, but she does not tell Rumplestiltskin for a further two days. She tells herself it's because she wants to be completely sure, because she might have misremembered when her last cycle ended, but she can't quite lie to herself.

She doesn't tell him because she's afraid of his reaction.

For, she reminds herself, he hadn't wanted a wife. He'd taken her as such, but he hadn't _wanted_ her, and surely that means he has no desire for children either. There is his lost son, as well, the son who is enshrined in Rumplestiltskin's mind, and she has no wish to upset him, but she thinks that another child may bring bitter memories for him, even if that bitterness is eased by joy.

She must tell him today, for even in her hopeless optimism she knows it has been too long since she bled, and that Edith must be right: she is with child.

And yet she is so afraid of what he will say to her, when she tells him the truth. She's afraid he won't want this child, that he'll twist her happiness into something wrong, something cruel. For she is happy, she thinks, although it's hard to focus on the joy she feels at the thought of a child, her child, _their_ child growing within her.

She's thought of children, since coming to the Dark Castle. She's thought of the happiness that she could gain through children, when she'd thought there could be no other happiness here. There would be the joy of cradling a baby in her arms, of hearing its cries, of seeing it grow and teaching it as much as she is able. The happiness of knowing that through motherhood, at least, she has a purpose that cannot be taken from her.

She brings him their customary afternoon tea in the great hall, where he's been sitting all day spinning. She doesn't know why some days he works and others he spins, and there seems no pattern to it. Some days he spins half the day, and some days he holes himself up in his workroom and barely manages to leave his work for long enough to eat with her at supper.

Today he's spinning, and when she appears in the great hall with the tea tray he breaks off, rises and comes to her. He takes the tray from her hands, sets it on the table, and then, with a crooked smile, holds out her chair.

"Thank you," she says, but she hesitates, reaches out for him instead of sitting. "I – I'm not really thirsty, though," she says, falteringly, and Rumplestiltskin's smile fades into a frown, his mouth down-turned and a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"As you wish," he says, and he tilts his head, draws her closer to him and settles his hands at her waist. It feels natural, and she lifts her hands to rest on his shoulders, tries to smile at him but doesn't quite manage it. "What's the matter?" he asks her, and she drops her gaze, focuses on the carved wooden buttons of his waistcoat.

"I need to tell you something," she says, her words slurring together a little in her nervousness. Rumplestiltskin's grasp of her feels a little tighter, but Belle presses closer to him, as close as she can be, rests her head against his shoulder for a moment. She's trying to show that there's nothing wrong, nothing for him to be upset or angry about, but she's not sure how well she's succeeding.

Regardless, she loves being in his arms like this, held close by him. She could never have imagined how she would grow to enjoy it, for how could anyone imagine such a thing from a creature such as he? And yet she enjoys it, relishes the closeness and the warmth and the feel of his arms around her.

She leans against him, closes her eyes, and stores the feeling up inside her against whatever is to come.

"What is it, my lady?" he asks her, and there's something tense beneath the velvet of his soft question, something she can't name. Perhaps it's worry, perhaps it's fear. Perhaps it's anger, for he must realise now that she has been concealing something from him.

"It's not bad," she says hastily, opening her eyes, pulling back a little. She can't read his expression, and that worries her, makes her even more nervous. "I – at least," she says uncertainly, "I don't think it's bad."

"Well," says Rumplestiltskin, slow and puzzled, "tell me, then, and I can decide for myself."

Belle bites her lip, takes a deep breath. "I – " She can't manage it, she breaks off, pulls away from him and hugs her arms about herself as she stares down at the tea tray. The chipped cup, the cup he always uses now. It seems oddly sentimental.

"Spit it out, dearie," he says, and his voice is high and sharp now, hatefully high, and Belle closes her eyes, exhales. Nothing she says now will be met with pleasure, but neither can she refrain from speaking now that she's got this far, now that he's waiting so coldly for her to answer him.

She turns, but keeps her gaze lowered, focusing on his booted feet. "I – I'm with child," she says, the words rushed and barely comprehensible to her own ears, but she's said it, and she's sure he understood her words, sure she doesn't have to repeat herself, because she looks up in time to see his eyes widen a fraction, his lips pressed together into a thin line.

He's silent for long moments then, long moments that stretch out and threaten to become endless, and with every passing minute Belle feels more agonised, more sure that whatever he finally says will not be good. She hugs herself tightly, feels a surge of protectiveness for this child within her, even though the child seems barely more than a nebulous thought. It's barely more than a dream.

"There are ways to get rid of it, you know," he says at last.

Belle doesn't realise what she's doing until the sound of her hand hits his cheek, until his head is flung to one side and she can see a dark mark on his face from where she's slapped him. She can see distinct finger marks, and she chokes on a gasp, brings her hand to her mouth, stares at him in horror – at her own audacity as much as anything else.

But Rumplestiltskin says nothing, does nothing in retaliation. He lifts a hand to his cheek and rubs at the mark, turns his head so he's looking at her again, dark eyes and horrible blankness. Tears cloud her vision until she can't see him properly anymore, and she can hardly breathe, and he _says nothing_.

The silence is dreadful, cold and heavy, and broken only by her breath hitching as she fights tears. Of all things she imagined he might say, she never imagined that.

She never imagined he would suggest _that_.

Finally he moves; finally he turns and walks away from her. He leaves the great hall, and the door closes quietly behind him. Belle takes a great, gasping breath and lets herself cry. She collapses into the nearest chair, covers her face with her hands and cries in a way she hasn't cried since her first night in the castle.

Not even when he'd thrown her across the room and shouted at her had she felt so wretched, so _rejected_. So utterly heart-broken. She'd known he might not welcome a child, but to reject it so utterly, so callously, is more than she could ever have imagined.

Belle cries until she can cry no more, until she's choking on it and her eyes are puffy and she feels utterly exhausted. Then, her face hot and her eyes aching, she calms down. She has nothing to dry her face with, so she just lifts her skirt and uses the hem of that to wipe her cheeks dry. She should, she knows, go up to her room or to the kitchen and wash her face, make herself presentable, for she's sure she looks appalling. She knows from experience that she is not a pretty sight when she cries, not like some women.

But she doesn't seem to care how she looks; it doesn't seem to matter. There had been a pleasure in looking her best, before – in dressing carefully, in appealing to his eyes. It's vain, but she's enjoyed it. Now it seems pointless.

She'd thought she'd felt lonely before; now, here in the great hall, she feels utterly isolated and alone. She is reminded, now, that Rumplestiltskin is not a man. He does not feel things as a man does.

It's something she's foolishly forgotten, over the past days and weeks as she's seen something else in him, something softer and kinder and something that, she thinks, is desperately lonely.

But he is not a man. He's not a man, and his suggestion, so utterly abhorrent to her, has acted as a painful reminder of that. And if he can be so callous, so cruel, she thinks wildly, why has she tried so hard to please him? Why has she hidden her questions, her curiosity, her very self even, in the attempt to be a wife he could want? If he can be so utterly, wretchedly cruel even in the face of something that he must know would bring her joy, why has she tried so hard to be a good wife to him?

She sighs, a heavy exhalation, and covers her face with her hands once more. She'd let herself forget that he is not a man, in the face of his kindness and generosity and, yes, the desire she feels for him. She should have remembered what he is, as he'd instructed her to do, and she should never have allowed her heart to become so bruised.

She longs for her friends, for Laura, for her father, even though she could not possibly tell her father what's happened, because she knows Maurice, she knows he would try to defend her and his defence would be swatted away as if he were nothing. She wouldn't dream of putting her father into that position – nor, Belle has to admit, would she do it to Rumplestiltskin either, for even now she thinks, hopes, that he would feel guilty for the action he would take in response to an attack.

She wonders what he's thinking now, wonders if he's hidden himself up in his work room and is sulking or brooding or –

It's pointless to think about that. Belle refuses to think about that.

It's also pointless to continue sitting here, so she forces herself to get up, to take the tray and to leave the great hall. She goes to the kitchen, finds it empty even of kittens, and she pours away the wasted tea and mechanically washes up the dirty crockery. She had cut slices of bread and spread them with butter, for their mid-afternoon snack, and now she cuts the slices up into small cubes and goes to throw it out into the kitchen yard for the birds.

Something, at least, can profit from the wasted meal. The birds will enjoy the unexpected treat.

Belle pauses then, hesitates. She had planned to cook supper, to try her hand at a new recipe, but she has no inclination to cook now, and no desire whatsoever to eat with Rumplestiltskin tonight. The castle will provide, if she does not or cannot cook, and Belle stands in the middle of the kitchen looking around and feels weary. Meal preparation seems beyond her capabilities just now, and so she decides, for once, to allow the castle's magic to provide instead.

So she goes upstairs, to the kittens slumbering in her sitting room, to the welcoming fire and the sanctuary of her own rooms. Here she can be by herself, alone and private, for he will not break his word, she's sure. He will not come in if she refuses him entry, for he gave her his word, and he's not a man who breaks faith lightly.

Although, she thinks bitterly, he is clearly a man who views the taking of a life lightly.

But Belle refuses to think of that now; there'll be time enough to think about it later, when she sees him next. She will think about other things now – or, better yet, she will think about nothing.

She goes into her wash room, splashes her face with cold water to relieve some of the hotness of her cheeks, the soreness of her eyes. She uses the chamber pot and then looks for a moment at the bath, trying to decide if she can justify a bath when it can't be long past mid-afternoon. A bath would soothe her, but it would also give her time to think, and that's not something she wants right now.

A bath would also mean undressing, it would mean being without the defences of clothing, and Belle shudders at the thought of making herself more vulnerable. She is hurting too much to lay herself open to any further hurt.

So she returns to the sitting room, to the warmth of her chair by the fire, feeling at least a little better for her wash. She picks up her knitting, but has to discard it again when she remembers his teasing of it, of her lack of skill at the craft. She tries to read, but her mind is too chaotic, and she can't focus on the words. She contemplates writing letters to her father and Laura, but she rejects the idea as wholly unsuitable, given how she's feeling. She must have distance from the events of the afternoon, if only a little, before she could dare put pen to paper. Otherwise, she's sure, she would end up writing things that are better left unwritten.

Things that she wishes could be undone, words unsaid. She regrets telling him, now, and yet she knows she'd had no choice. He would have discovered it, eventually, and the pain would have been worse then for she would have had to lie to him, and he would have found her out in the lie.

Belle thinks it _would_ have been worse then, that she's taken the right course of action in telling him as soon as she was as sure as she can be. And yet he had reacted in a way she had never dreamed of, a way that makes her feel sick to her stomach. This child, the child growing inside her, is not a bad thing. Perhaps it's not what he wanted, but why, then, had he married her? Why had he come to her bed? Children are a natural result of such things, and if he hadn't wanted children…

She touches her stomach, closes her eyes. He does not want children; that much is obvious now. He does not want this child. But she knows she will fight to keep this child, with every fibre of her being. She might not have wanted this marriage – or any marriage – but she wants this child. She wants it enough to fight him for it, if that's what must happen.

She will fight for this child, and for her own happiness, if she has to fight.

But the thought of it is exhausting, and she sighs wearily, thinks of her bed and thinks she would feel better for a sleep. Or perhaps, she decides, a nap here in the chair. She'll be woken up more easily here, for the kittens are never asleep for long and they are loud and boisterous. In her room there would be silence, and perhaps she would be more comfortable, but she doesn't wish to sleep for long.

Just for long enough.

She kicks off her shoes, reaches for the knitted blanket that's slung over the back of her chair. It takes her a few moments, but eventually she is curled up into a reasonably comfortable position, her head resting on the padded arm of the chair and her feet tucked into the blanket.

Then she closes her eyes, yawns, and tugs the blanket so it covers her whole body. Warm, exhausted, Belle drifts off to sleep.


	37. Chapter 37

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle wakes in the dark, stiff and aching and her foot cramping from the position she's been sleeping in. The fire has burned low, glowing coals in the grate, and none of the candles or lamps set around the room have been lit.

It seems to Belle, looking around as she stretches out her foot and leg, as if magic has been banished from this room, at least temporarily. Usually when she wakes the fire is blazing and candles are lit, waiting for her no matter what time it is, how late or early she wakes. She's not sure what it means – if it means anything – that now the fire is untended and the candles are unlit. She can't help thinking it must surely mean he's displeased with her, and yet she doesn't deserve it.

She doesn't deserve it; she has done nothing wrong. She must keep that thought fixed firmly in her mind, no matter what happens. It is he who needs her forgiveness, not the other way around.

Belle rises then, goes to shut the curtains and then retrieves her shoes and puts them on, defence against the cold of the stone floor. She wishes, not for the first time, for a thick rug to protect her feet, but rugs are expensive, and she doesn't feel she can ask Rumplestiltskin for one, not now – even though he has never refused her any of the few requests she's made of him.

But now…now things are different. She feels almost as she did when she'd first arrived, feels that she should not, must not, ask him for anything, let alone something as trivial as a carpet to keep her feet warm when she's so foolish as to walk around without slippers or shoes.

She's hungry, and for a few moments she stands in her sitting room and ponders asking the castle to provide something here, rather than going down to the kitchen in search of something to eat. The moon had been high and full when she'd shut the curtains, so she knows it's past their normal supper hour; Rumplestiltskin has either forgotten the time, or decided to leave her to lick her wounds. Either way, it means she doesn't have to eat with him tonight, and she's grateful for that.

She'll have to face him, whether tonight or tomorrow, but she cannot sit and eat a meal with him peacefully, not after what he'd said to her.

But she's hungry, and so she ventures forth from her room, through the dark corridors and hallways and staircases, down to the kitchen. Here, at least, candles are lit, although the fire in the hearth is dying down just as the one in her room. She doesn't mind it so much here, for at least there's light, and it's warmer here than her room after a day of the hot blaze of the kitchen fire.

There's food waiting for her on the table; a meat pie, a platter of roast venison and roasted vegetables, a thick fish stew and a dish laden with sweet pastries. Far more food than she could possibly eat, and she wonders if it's the castle's doing or Rumplestiltskin's. Then she berates herself for caring, for entertaining the idea that he might be sorry for what he's said.

He is not a man, she reminds herself bitterly, and he does not feel things the way a man does. And she does not know him as well as she'd thought.

Rumplestiltskin appears when she's finished her meal, a dark, silent presence melting out of the shadows at the other side of the table between one breath and the next. As if he's as much part of the shadows as he is flesh and blood.

Belle doesn't jump; she lifts a napkin and wipes her mouth, folds the cloth onto the table and looks up at him. She says nothing, no word of greeting, for she doesn't quite trust herself to speak without anger. She studies his face, the careful blankness of his expression, and perhaps she does know him at least a little after all, because she can see a slight tension around his mouth, the lines of his face a little more rigid than usual. He's holding himself in just as much as she is.

The silence stretches, and Belle has to hold on tightly to her resolve. She doesn't look away from him, meets his gaze steadily, chin held high. In moments such as these, she thinks, she hopes, that she is at least a little like her mother. Graceful and strong and dignified and everything that Belle has always tried to be.

She won't speak first; she will not do it. In her mind his words echo around, over and over again.

'_There are ways to get rid of it, you know'_.

At last he sighs, tears his gaze from hers and looks down at the table between them.

"You've hardly eaten," he observes, and Belle closes her eyes for a moment, shakes her head slightly and looks at him again. Her strange, dark husband, who can suggest such a thing and yet still voice concern for her health.

"Do you expect me to be hungry?" she asks, and her voice sounds strange, queer and tight and low.

"I'd not have you starve yourself," he says, and he can't seem to look at her now.

"Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you said –" She can't finish, the words choke her, and she lifts her hand to her mouth, feels almost sick at the thought of it. She tries to take deep breaths, to calm herself, but she's angry and it's hard to contain it.

"It was only a suggestion, dearie," he says, high and mocking and Belle despises him in that moment, hates that he feels he has to be so twisted and loathsome. Why, she thinks wildly, is he sometimes so hateful and sometimes so kind, so gentle? She wishes for her patient husband then, for the man she's shared her bed with, the man she's been growing to care for so unexpectedly and so deeply.

"It was vile," she snaps, letting her hand fall into her lap. "It was – this is your _child_, Rumplestiltskin." He flinches – if she hadn't been looking at him she wouldn't have seen it, but he flinches and then stills himself again. The words hang in the air, and Belle takes a deep breath. "If it were a stranger's child," she says, forcing herself to quietness, to calmness, "I might be able to understand you saying it. But this is _your_ child."

Rumplestiltskin lifts his head, looks at her, an unguarded look that reveals agony and pain and it almost takes Belle's breath away.

"I had a child," he says. "He's gone. I have no wish for another, dearie."

"Then why did you marry me?" Belle demands, and she can't be seated any longer, pushes her chair back so roughly it almost falls over. She keeps the table between them, grips the edge of it and demands answers from him. "Why did you marry me at all if you didn't want a wife and children?"

Rumplestiltskin falls back a pace, as if she's physically threatening him, far enough back from the candles on the table that she can't easily see his face anymore.

"Children aren't an automatic result of marriage, you know," he says, snapping at her now. "How was I to know you'd be – that you'd –"

Understanding dawns, although it's not enough to drain her of anger entirely. He had taken her as his wife, but he had never expected that she would try to care for him, that she would welcome him to her bed. He'd never expected it for he thinks himself a monster.

He is a monster, she reminds herself. He is a twisted, dark thing. But he's more than that, too, and she can't have one part of him without the other.

"That I'd want you?" she asks, and she can feel herself calming down a little now, as she begins to understand a little. "You thought I'd be just like everyone else, didn't you?" She remembers everything he's said about her surprising him, about her uniqueness. She thinks of all the times he's been visibly surprised by something she's said or done.

He never expected her.

"You thought I'd fear you," she murmurs. "You told me – I remember – you said you didn't want me to be afraid. But you thought I would be." And she has been, until now. She has been afraid of him and has let that fear guide her words and actions.

No longer.

He says nothing; she can't see him clearly, and that irritates her, so she goes around the table and reaches for him. Rumplestiltskin takes another step backwards though, and Belle falters. She bites her lip, wraps her arms around herself and tries to see him through the darkness.

"I won't apologise for it," she tells him at last, and he huffs a reluctant laugh.

"Nor should you," he says, and she nods. "I would not change you," he adds, and Belle manages a smile – small, but genuine, for she hadn't realised how much she needs that reassurance now. How much she needs to know that he isn't rejecting her.

"Why did you marry me?" she asks again, needing to know, because there must have been something else in it, something beyond a deal, beyond what he's said to her before. If he expected nothing more from her than a decorative, useless treasure, there must have been some other reason for him to marry her.

But he doesn't answer, and Belle swallows, glances away from him. She can't force him to speak, after all, but she wishes he would, wishes he would give her more.

She looks down at herself, at her slender shape, and tries to imagine herself rounded with child. She can't do it, somehow, and yet in only a few months it will happen.

"Belle," he says, and the use of her name makes her look up. He's drawn closer to her again, close enough to touch if she had the courage to reach out to him, and the candlelight flickers across his face, making him in one moment sinister and in another kindly. "Belle," he repeats, "surely you cannot want this child?"

All her hurt and anger and heartbreak rises up in her again, and she flinches away from him, presses her lips together until she's sure she can speak without snapping at him.

"Rumplestiltskin," she manages at last, "why are you so certain that I must want to – to get rid of it?" The words are foul and distasteful, and she's almost pleased to see him flinch to hear her say it, to hear her repeat what he'd said to her.

"I…" Rumplestiltskin doesn't seem to know what to say, and then he snarls and surges forward, backs her up against the table, traps her against it. "You cannot tell me you want it," he says, sneering and cruel and everything about him that she fears. "Look at me – _look at me!_" He grasps her chin with his hand, forces her to keep looking at him, and Belle is terrified, except –

Except she knows he won't hurt her. Because he gave her his word, and so however much he might scare her, he will not hurt her. She trusts that, trusts him.

He will not hurt her.

"You cannot honestly expect me to believe you would welcome my child," he snarls at her, and Belle doesn't flinch away from him, not now. "The child of an evil monster? And if the child is born with my skin, hm? Would you still want it then, dearie?"

"Yes," says Belle at once. "Yes, I would." He releases her chin but doesn't move away, keeps her crowded into the table, almost off-balance. Belle doesn't care, holds the knowledge of his promise close to her and stares him down. "Why should it matter what colour its skin is?" she demands of him. "It would be _ours_."

And that matters to her, she realises now. More than simply being her child, more than being a source of joy, it matters to her that it is _their_ child. Because she – she cares for him, could love him in time, and this child is something they have created together.

"Besides," she adds, and she reaches out to him, cups his cheek in her hand, "haven't I shown I don't care what you look like?" He stares at her, silent, and Belle waits for a long moment before speaking again. "I didn't want this marriage," she tells him, and he nods, a jerk of his head that dislodges her hand. "There's no place for me here and never has been. Do you know how hard that has been for me?" she asks. He says nothing, but his mouth is a thin line. Perhaps he hasn't realised, although they've spoken of it before. Perhaps Belle has tried too hard to please him and not given enough of herself.

She has faded away, she thinks wearily, as Laura had warned her might happen. She has been too afraid of him.

"I've tried," she says at last, "to make my own place here. I've tried to make this work. This – this child – I _want_ it, Rumplestiltskin." She takes his hand and puts it to her stomach, to wear the child is growing inside her. He swallows, looks down between them at his hand. His fingers move, his thumb rubbing across the fabric of her dress, and Belle watches the play of emotions across his face, the undisguised terror and the awe.

Then the emotions are shut away, barricaded behind dark eyes and a tight-lipped smile. He tugs his hand away from her as if burned by the touch, takes a step back so Belle is no longer trapped against the table.

"You're sure of it?" he asks her then. "That it's – that you're – " He can't finish, and Belle saves him from trying.

"I think so," she says. She hesitates to speak of her cycle, her bleeding, things she's never spoken of to any man, but he is her husband, after all. "I should have bled," she says plainly. "I have always bled regularly before. Always." He nods, a quick, curt thing. "And Edith saw it," Belle adds, and he grimaces for a moment but nods again.

"Well, she'd know," he mutters, and that's more confirmation than anything else. If Rumplestiltskin trusts Edith's judgement, Belle can too. "And you…you want it."

"Please," says Belle desperately, "please don't say that you don't. Not now. I can't – I can't bear it." Not now, not again. She understands his fear – or at least as much as she can understand it, given how little she knows about his son – and she can't blame him for being afraid, for lashing out. He's afraid, she thinks, of losing this child as he'd lost his son. She can't blame him for that. The pain of losing a child is an agony she can't imagine.

But she can't bear to hear him say, once more, that he doesn't want this child.

"I won't say it," he assures her, and she's relieved, but she can't help noticing that although he won't say he doesn't want the child, he hasn't said he _does_ want it either.

She had told herself to be patient, when she first came here, Belle remembers. She must try to be patient still, because he had never expected any of this. He had not expected her to try to like him, or to carve out a place for herself here, or to desire him. He had not expected a child from this union because he had never expected that she would welcome him into her bed. She'd never expected to want a child, either. A symbol of all she'd always dreaded in a marriage, when she was young and foolish. Because she had been young and foolish, she thinks. And she does wants this child.

She must be patient, because she has time. Not unlimited time, it's true – nine months to teach him that this child is not a bad thing. But she has time.

Belle sighs now, lifts a hand to rub at her eyes. "It's late," she says, "and I'm tired. I think I should go to bed."

"Of course." He sounds withdrawn now, absent, and she doesn't like that. "I'll say goodnight, then."

Belle reaches out for him, closes the distance between them and fists her hands in his sleeves before he can retreat once more.

"I would like," she says quietly, "for my husband to come to bed with me." She wants to lie in her bed with his arms around her – nothing more, for there's no desire in her tonight, no ache of wanting for him. She wants him to hold her, to lie secure in his arms and to know that he wants to be there too.

Rumplestiltskin sighs, lifts a hand to stroke across her hair, shakes his head. "My lady," he says, and there's distance in the title, distance forcibly placed between them. "Not tonight." He leans forward, kisses her forehead, and then gently disentangles himself from her. "Go to bed," he says.

Belle refuses to show her disappointment; she nods her head, gathers herself together, and leaves the kitchen.


	38. Chapter 38

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin is absent the next day. Not gone, not away from the castle – or at least Belle thinks not. Merely absent, hiding himself away in some corner of the castle that she hasn't explored yet. He's not in his workroom, when she ventures there in search of him; his spinning wheel, in the great hall, sits unused. He does not appear for breakfast, lunch, or tea, and that hurts more than anything else, that he does not come for the afternoon tea that they've shared together since her very first day as his wife.

Apart from when he's away on his business, of course, but there is a different feel about the castle when he's gone, a feeling that Belle does not have now. He is here, somewhere; she's sure of it. But she doesn't know where, and she doesn't feel inclined to search further for him. If he wants to hide away, she tells herself, she will let him.

She busies herself with work – not the library, today, but plain hard work that makes her muscles ache, her back groan. She scrubs the kitchen floor in the morning and then, dress sodden and hands raw from it, she decides to keep going with the chore and scrub the entrance hall as well. She might as well, she decides, since she's already soaking wet.

It's dark by the time she finishes, but not late, for the sun sets so early in the mountains in winter. The candelabra set into the walls have lit, one by one, to give her light to work by and now she stands, using the wall to help her for her muscles are so sore and cramped, and surveys the clean floor. There's a sense of pride in it, for she's never scrubbed a floor before – never had a need to, even if she had been _allowed_ to – but she aches so much she can hardly move.

And, whilst the hard work has occupied her body, her mind has been free and Belle feels hurt, and angry once more that Rumplestiltskin continues to reject her. Afraid, too – for all day she's found herself remembering her mother. Remembering the last time she'd seen her mother, pale and worn out and dying, and the reasons for her mother's death.

Perhaps, she thinks, bitterly and with far too much fear, perhaps she will share the same fate, and so Rumplestiltskin will be freed from both unwanted wife and unwanted child.

"You're soaking."

Belle pushes away from the wall, turns and faces him.

"And you," she says, "missed tea." He's standing on the bottom step of the stairs, peering down at the floor, but he glances up at her when she says that. There is, she thinks, a modicum of guilt in his expression, and it gratifies her.

But when he speaks, he gives no word of apology or excuse.

"I think," he says, "that in future you should refrain from cleaning the floors, dearie." He drops down from the step onto the floor, dances sideways to avoid a wet patch. Belle watches the flutter of his hand, the way he can't seem to look straight at her. Nervous, she thinks, and it's strange. Usually he's so confident, so sure of himself, but she thinks he is nervous now as he picks his way across the floor towards her.

She finds it in herself to be pleased that he's avoiding the places where the floor is still wet, that he will not undo her hard work.

He comes to stand before her, and Belle lifts her chin a little, raises her eyes to him wearily. She is tired, both from physical labour and from mental anguish, and she does not want another confrontation now. She wants a hot bath, and supper, and her bed – and, she thinks, she wants her husband beside her. She wants to be selfish, just for tonight, selfishly wants him to set aside whatever it is he's feeling in favour of soothing her own wounds.

Belle hopes she isn't a selfish person, but tonight she wants her husband, wants his kindness and his tenderness, for he can be both. He has shown both to her before, and she wants them again.

"You are exhausted as well as soaked," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. "My foolish wife." He reaches out for her, but Belle flinches away, hurting and unafraid of showing it. He sighs, keeps his hand extended out to her. "And I," he says, "am perhaps a foolish husband as well."

"Perhaps?" Belle repeats, unkindly, and Rumplestiltskin puts his hand to his heart, plays at being wounded. His other hand is still extended to her, and Belle exhales, reaches out and takes it in her own. He is trying, and so, therefore, must she. "I am tired," she admits.

"I don't doubt it," he says, a ripple of amusement across his face. "Feel better for it, dearie?"

"Do you feel better for hiding yourself away all day?" she asks pointedly, and although he doesn't flinch exactly, she can see her words have hit their mark. She sighs, shakes her head. "I don't want to fight with you," she says, softer now. She doesn't want to fight, to hear angry or harsh words.

Her hand in his feels small, her skin is pale against his. She looks at their hands together, and reminds herself that all things pass. All fights end; all bitterness fades. This hurt will become a distant memory, subsumed by the joy of her child, even if he can find no joy in its existence.

"Come, my lady," he says, tugging at her hand a little. "We will not fight. Come now."

Belle lets him lead her from the entrance hall, leaving mop and bucket behind her. He takes her up through the castle, holding her by the hand, up to her rooms. He pauses at the threshold, but Belle says no word against his entrance, and so he brings her in, through to her bedroom.

She stirs from acquiescence then, opens her mouth to speak but is stopped by his finger at her mouth, admonishing her to silence.

"I have been remiss," he says to her, "in my duties as husband. You…" He seems to struggle with the words, but Belle waits patiently, too weary for anything _but_ patience now. "You are," he says at last, "a far better wife than I deserve."

"I –"

"Let me try to deserve you, hm?" he says, and it's almost a plea, something tense and desperate beneath the softness of his voice. "I wish to care for my wife this evening. Is a husband permitted to care for his wife?"

There is a lump in Belle's throat, and a tear falls down her cheek. Rumplestiltskin looks distressed at that, lifts his finger from her lips to wipe the tear away, and Belle tries to speak but can't quite manage it. She had wanted tenderness, she thinks, but had not thought he would give it to her, had not thought he would be so…so perceptive.

"Dear one," he murmurs, and Belle tries to smile, nods her head.

"I would like that," she says, a broken whisper, and his distress evaporates into pleasure. He strokes his fingers down her cheek and then puts his hands on her shoulders.

"Turn, then, dearie," he says, and propels her around. "You'll catch cold standing around in wet clothes." Belle nods again, leans her head down to keep her hair out of his way as his deft fingers pluck at the ties of her dress. She's too tired to help him, but not quite too tired to keep from smiling when she hears him grumble under his breath at the state of the knot she'd tied in the laces that morning. She's grown used to dressing herself, and better at it, but knots tied behind one's back are not the same as knots tied on somebody else's dress, she knows.

He succeeds in untangling it, and pushes the dress from her shoulders, guides her arms from the sleeves. It falls in a puddle at her feet, and Belle steps out from it, kicks off her sodden shoes at the same time. Rumplestiltskin skims his hands down her bare arms, clicks his tongue in disapproval at how cold she is.

"Can't have that," he says, and he reaches around her to unbutton her petticoat. That falls to the ground too, and he works on her corset next. Her underclothes are damp, although not as wet as the dress, and he strips her of them carefully but efficiently. He touches wherever skin is bared, and although it doesn't pull desire from her, Belle likes the sensation of it. His fingers across her shoulder blade, down her spine, across her stomach and down to her thigh.

It's like he's exploring her, learning her afresh tonight, and if his hand lingers for a moment at her belly, she steadfastly refuses to notice it.

Before long she's naked, and she lifts her arms to cover herself, feels herself blushing. Rumplestiltskin seems almost uninterested, but she's never been naked like this before him, not outside her bed. She feels it should be shameful, and yet in his quiet disrobing of her there had been nothing of shame; only affection and gentle care.

He takes her through to the washroom then, to the bath that's full of hot water and scented oils, and he offers a steady arm as she climbs in.

"This will warm you, hm?" he says, and Belle nods, leans back in the bath and heaves a great sigh. Rumplestiltskin rolls up his sleeves and then squats down beside the bath, trails his fingers across the water. His gaze remains at her face rather than dipping any lower. She reaches for his hand then, entwines their wet fingers and smiles at him.

"This is nice," she tells him, and he smiles widely, satisfaction written across his features.

"Good," he says. "Feeling a little better, hm?" She doesn't answer, but then he's not looking for an answer, not really. She closes her eyes, feels the hot water start to work on her aching muscles. It _is_ nice, lying here with him close to her, although she's sure that if she were less tired she would feel embarrassed to have him sitting beside her bath while she lies within.

He frees his hand from hers and she opens her eyes to see him reaching for the sponge and soap. He washes her then, gentle and careful, limb by limb. It's almost like being a child, Belle thinks, but there is an edge of something to his ministrations that removes all hint of nursery care from it. Something in the way he touches her, the way he looks at her, the very gentleness of him, as if he's being terribly restrained.

It's soothing, though, and it's kind and tender and everything she'd wanted from him tonight. Everything she'd needed.

"Lean forwards," he instructs her, and Belle obeys, pulls her hair over her shoulders so he can clean her back. She rests her chin on her knees and, her face hidden from him, confesses the fear that's nagged her all day.

"My mother," she says, "died from childbirth."

The motion of the sponge against her back doesn't cease, but Rumplestiltskin sighs, and Belle bites her lip, could almost wish the words unsaid. She thinks she should not have reminded him of the child growing inside her, and yet she cannot avoid speaking of it forever.

"Do you think, dear one," he says to her then, "that I would allow such a fate to be yours?"

She swallows, shrugs one shoulder a little. "You don't want it," she says, her voice quiet and choked. She won't cry again, she thinks, she _won't_. She's done enough crying already, and she knows how it upsets him.

"Oh, Belle," he says, helpless and pitiful, and he leans forward, his lips brush against her shoulder. "There is so much," he murmurs, "that you don't know, my wife. But I would not let you die in such a way. Believe that, if you believe nothing else."

Belle can do nothing but nod, for there's something in his voice that makes her believe him, something fierce and determined and dark. She should be frightened of the darkness of it, of the softly spoken words that ring with truth and power and promise, but she isn't afraid. Not any longer.

And she believes him. He will do everything within his immeasurable power to make sure she does not share her mother's fate. Belle has tried so hard to be like her mother, to be graceful and dignified and to do her duty as her mother had always done, but she fears being like her mother in this respect, in dying before she has a chance to create life – in leaving Rumplestiltskin alone again, lonely again.

"Out now, dearie," he says briskly, as if embarrassed by showing a hint of vulnerability, covering himself with a lighter tone and matter-of-fact words. "Before you turn into a prune." Belle laughs at that, as he intended, and she holds out her hands for him to help her up. He pulls her upright, holds her steady as she steps out of the bath, and then wraps her in a warm towel. Belle leans against him, rests her head on his shoulder and relishes the closeness of it as he holds her.

"I'm getting you wet," she whispers at last. Rumplestiltskin nods, loosens his grasp of her.

"You are," he agrees, and he tucks his fingers beneath her chin, lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses her forehead. "We must dry you," he says. "Too cold to be standing about like this." He suits action to word, taking the towel and rubbing her dry, briskly and thoroughly. Belle barely has time to get cold, for in minutes she's dry and he's lifting a nightgown over her head. She wriggles her arms through the sleeves, draws the neck closed and ties a sloppy bow in the ribbon, and Rumplestiltskin smiles a crooked smile.

"Much better," he says. "And now bed."

"I'm hungry," she protests, but Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, jerks his head at the door. Belle looks at him for a long moment, but he's been good to her so far this evening, and she must trust him. She turns and goes into the bedroom, stumbles onto the bed and leans back against the high pile of pillows.

Rumplestiltskin fusses at the blankets for a few moments, making sure she's well-covered, and then he disappears briefly into the sitting room. Belle runs her fingers through her hair, wishes for her hairbrush to tame the tangles, but now she's in bed she's not sure she can summon the will to leave it again, even just to cross the few paces to her little dressing table.

"Supper," Rumplestiltskin announces as he returns, bearing a tray. "And then, dear one, you must sleep."

"Alright," says Belle, and she manages a smile as he sets the tray carefully on the bed beside her. Bread and butter, and a bowl of soup – not too much, nothing too exotic, just simple foods to nourish her. She appreciates that, reaches out and catches his hand when he moves to retreat. "Thank you," she says at his surprised look, and she squeezes his hand. "Thank you, Rumplestiltskin."

He hums, shrugs a shoulder and sits beside her on the bed. "Eat, dearie," he urges. "Before you fall asleep into the bowl, hm?"

She reaches for the bowl and obediently begins to eat.


	39. Chapter 39

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

After her supper in bed, Belle falls asleep quickly. Rumplestiltskin doesn't join her in the bed, but he lies on top of the blankets, so she's able to roll against him and fall asleep with her head on his chest, his hand stroking through her hair.

She wakes in the night, wakes to coldness and to a fluttering of fingers and lips against her abdomen, and Belle keeps her eyes closed, controls her breathing so he won't realise she's awake.

She can't quite make out what he's saying; what she does hear seems strange, odd words or sounds that aren't in the familiar, common language. Magic, she thinks, and she can't help a smile then – revealing that she's no longer asleep, and she hears him sigh.

"I've woken you," he murmurs, regretful, and he smoothes her nightgown, presses a kiss to her stomach. "Back to sleep, dear one, hm?"

"I think," Belle says sleepily, "that it's a little early to be teaching our child magic." He huffs a laugh, a dark thing, his breath warm against her. She opens her eyes but doesn't bother lifting her head from the pillow to try to look at him, for it's far too dark to see anything.

She reaches out her hand, though, finds his head and strokes his hair.

"I did not mean to wake you," he tells her, and Belle nods. Rumplestiltskin rests his cheek against her stomach, and Belle closes her eyes again. "And," he adds softly, "it is never too early to protect something so precious."

Belle's still half-asleep, so it doesn't seem odd to her that he describes their child as precious when so far he's seemed so callous over its existence. She smiles, hums a happy hum, and feels his hand moving over her again. She's cold, the blankets pushed aside and her nightgown scant protection against the cold of night, but she doesn't think of the cold, or of pulling the blankets back over her, for she likes this. It's oddly intimate – odd, because he isn't touching flesh and she'd been naked before him in the bath, and yet this feels more personal than that had been.

This feels…Belle doesn't have the words to describe how this feels. Warmth in her heart, her heart feeling like it's expanding in her chest, and he is so close to her, murmurs strange words against her once again. Words of protection, she supposes.

"I lost my son," he says then, and Belle is very suddenly awake, as awake as if she'd been drenched in cold water. "I lost him…so many years ago now. Centuries." He pauses and Belle lies still, barely dares to breathe, and listens. "It was my fault," he says, and the weight of those words is heavy. Centuries ago, and yet it's clear he still feels the pain and the guilt of it as if it had happened no more than a day ago. He sighs, shakes his head, just a little. "It was my fault," he repeats.

Belle licks her lips. "What – what happened?" she asks, soft and cautious, terribly afraid that by speaking she will have ruined this moment, that he will grow silent and leave her. But he doesn't leave; his hand goes to her hip, as if to hold her still. Belle keeps stroking his hair, hoping to soothe him by it.

"He asked me to choose between him and my power," he tells her at last. "And I was a coward."

There's more to the story, Belle can tell, but she doesn't press him. She strokes his hair and breathes evenly, and refuses to betray any inner thought. She will not allow him to think she blames him for it, for there's no blame to be given – or at least, not when there's still so much she doesn't know.

And anyway, she could not blame him for something that has caused him centuries of agony. Pain beyond imagining, she thinks, and thinks of the life growing inside her. A life they've created together. She can't stop the pain, and perhaps this child will only bring more for him, perhaps it will bring too many memories and regrets. But she cannot destroy the life she's already nurturing, even to soothe his anguish.

Even for her husband, she cannot do that.

But she must say something, for he's restless, his fingers fluttering against her, his head moving a little in agitation. Belle takes a breath, releases it.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I wouldn't do anything to cause you pain. But I can't wish this child unmade."

"As you said," says Rumplestiltskin, relaxing back into stillness, "children are a natural result of marriage." He makes a noise, a queer hum, and she can imagine the expression on his face. Curious, perhaps surprised. "I never expected you, though," he says. "When I came to you, I was going to offer you a different deal."

Belle nods. "You didn't want a wife," she says. "I know that. What were you going to offer me, then?"

"I wanted a caretaker," Rumplestiltskin says after a moment's pause, and Belle smiles into the darkness. He was lonely, she guesses. She has learned to read between the lines at least a little, knows him a little by now.

"What changed your mind?" she asks, and feels his smile against her stomach even through her nightgown. "You didn't want a wife," she says again. "So why, Rumplestiltskin?" She risks teasing him a little, winds a strand of his hair around her finger and tugs lightly. "Was it simply desire, my husband?"

"Do you yet doubt that, my wife?" he says, teasing in turn. Then he turns serious again, shakes his head. "No, it was more than that." He sighs, traces patterns against her. "I could not tell you what it was, even now. I never meant…" He lifts himself up, kneels beside her on the bed, and Belle props herself up on her elbows. He's a blackness against the darkness of her room, barely visible except as an outline, and then only if she looks very carefully. "I have plans," he says, dark and serious. "Things are falling into place at long last."

"Plans," Belle repeats, uncertain. "I don't…"

"I am looking for my son," he says. "Baelfire." He speaks the name as if it's been years since he dared to say it aloud, and Belle licks her lips, can't think of what to say. He's spoken of centuries, and he's told her before that necromancy is a myth – she has no idea what he means, and no idea how to phrase the question.

"I never planned for _you_," he tells her. "I have only ever made one deal before that I did not understand, before making it. Our deal…that was another."

"I don't – you're not making _sense_," says Belle plaintively. "What do you –" She pauses, the words dying in her mouth. She remembers Regina, the black queen, Regina the evil. Regina the necessary, for he'd said she was necessary and he'd lied to Belle then. He'd been spilling his thoughts heedlessly, and then realised it and _lied_ to her.

"Regina," she murmurs. "You said she was necessary. But – Rumplestiltskin – you said it was centuries ago, that you lost your son." She sits up properly, gropes for him, finds his hand and links their fingers together, holds him tightly. "I don't understand," she says. "If you want to tell me, start at the beginning." She brings his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. "Please, my husband," she says softly. "You're being so terribly confusing."

He reaches forward, tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her, slow and tender. Belle lets it distract her for a moment, lets herself be distracted by the warmth of it, by the way he angles his mouth against hers and grazes his teeth across her lip.

Then she pulls away, presses her fingers to his lips.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's alright," she tells him. "But please don't lie to me. I hate it when you lie to me." She traces the line of his mouth with her forefinger, feels the furrows of his cheeks. "It makes me feel," she says, her voice a soft whisper as she admits to it, "as if I don't matter to you at all." He inhales, and Belle uses the darkness to give herself the freedom to continue. "As if I'm nothing more than a stranger, even now," she says.

He's silent for long moments, and Belle lets her hand fall, wishes she could retreat from him, hopes that the darkness that keeps her from seeing his expression is a similar barrier to him. She doesn't know if it is; he has many powers, after all. She closes her eyes, sighs a soft sigh. She almost wants to apologise, but she's not sure what she would be apologising for, and so she says nothing.

"Would you keep my secrets, my lady?" he asks her at last, whimsical, and Belle bites her lip, confused once more. "There are so many," he goes on. "Could I trust you with them?"

Belle takes a breath, considers it carefully. She wants him to trust her, of course – wants it almost more than anything else. But this is important; this is more than him trusting her not to run away. She cannot imagine the kind of secrets he has, terrible and dark and, she's sure, dangerous.

"I said I would stand by you," she says slowly. "I mean to be loyal to you, Rumplestiltskin. I think…I think that's not much to ask of a wife, is it? Loyalty? I would like to think you could trust me, but…but I understand if you don't. And," she adds, "I wouldn't want you to tell me anything that could put you in any danger, of course."

"Of course," he echoes, and there's a note of incredulity in his voice. "You are…quite without match, Belle." He leans towards her, kisses her forehead. It's a blessing of sorts, and Belle's not quite sure what she's done to deserve it. "Dear one," he murmurs. "I would like a loyal wife, I think."

Belle reaches for him, wraps her arms around him and holds him close. "So," she murmurs, "I shall be that, then. Your loyal wife. I'd keep your secrets, if you wanted to share them." He exhales, a shuddering sigh, and she knows he's never trusted anyone else with his secrets. Long, lonely centuries of keeping his own counsel. She cannot expect him to reveal them all to her – must not expect him to tell her anything, at least not before he's ready to do so.

And if he's not ready now, that is alright, she tells herself. She doesn't mind that. She knows trust is not the easiest of things, not for him.

He pulls away from her, nudges her back down onto the bed and lies beside her. Belle rolls against him, rests her head comfortably on his chest, feels his arm come around her. Their legs tangle together, and his feet are as cold as hers. That makes him seem more human, but Belle is wary of thinking that. She's learnt _that_ lesson by now; he is not quite human, and she will not make that mistake again.

"Tell me about your son," she coaxes him, trying to turn his mind from secrets and trust and loyalty. "His name was Baelfire?"

"Yes." Rumplestiltskin settles his hand at her hip, pulls her even closer to him. "He was…he was…" He can't seem to find the words, and Belle rubs her cheek against the silk of his shirt, silent encouragement. "My wife left us when he was just an infant," Rumplestiltskin says eventually. "I disappointed her. So I raised Bae alone." He sighs. "We had little," he tells her, "and the ogre war was a constant threat. They took children for it, when they reached fourteen."

Belle can't imagine it; even in her village, even when the realm had grown desperate, young men and women had to reach their majority before being allowed to fight. Child soldiers, and it makes her feel sick, for children should never bear arms or fight futile battles. Children haven't the strength to lift heavy iron swords, or to raise longbows.

She thinks of the child growing inside her, and swears that her child will never suffer such a fate.

"I tried to save him from that," says Rumplestiltskin, his voice hard and brittle. "I changed myself." He's holding her tightly – almost too tightly, almost painful – and Belle thinks it's as if he's scared she'll run from him, scared she'll flee in horror or disgust. "And so," he goes on, "I lost him. I used my power to save him, and then I was too much of a coward to give it up."

Belle bites her lip, tries to think of what to say. He changed himself – and so, she thinks, he was not always thus. He was something else, before. A man, perhaps the gentleman she glimpses beneath the surface at times. And a man raising a son alone, in poverty. She thinks of the room, Baelfire's room. The clothing that had been repaired many times, the few and battered toys.

"What happened to him?" she asks at last, and she feels more than hears his sigh in response. "You don't have to tell me," she adds quickly. "If you don't want. I know it – I know you miss him still."

"I do," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. "All that I've done – all that I've worked for – it's all for him."

"But you said necromancy was a myth," Belle says, carefully, for she's no wish to upset him, not now, not when he's finally opening up a little.

"Oh, he's not dead," says Rumplestiltskin unexpectedly – so unexpected that Belle lifts her head from his chest, tries to look at him. A futile effort, for even with his face barely a hand's breadth from hers, she can't make out his expression. "No, no," Rumplestiltskin says. "He's alive. Or he will be, at the point I reach him."

Belle sighs. "Speak plainly," she tells him, demands of him, and he chuckles. Belle puts her head back onto his chest, feels his hand come to stroke through her hair. "You're not making sense," she complains. "And I'm too sleepy to try to puzzle you out. It's the middle of the night."

"Am I a puzzle, then?"

"You know you are," she says, and smothers a yawn. "You like it that way."

"Hm." She can feel his smile, pictures his face – the grin, the glint of his eyes. "Perhaps. And perhaps it's a tale best left for morning."

She shrugs a shoulder half-heartedly. "Would you tell me, in the daylight?" she asks, but she already knows the answer. In darkness lies safety, for both of them; in the darkness of her room they have each revealed things that neither would dream of doing in the light of day. He doesn't respond, but his silence isn't uncomfortable, isn't offended.

She yawns again, and Rumplestiltskin hums his amusement.

"As you wish," he says, "although I'm sure you'll hardly remember it tomorrow." Belle says nothing, closes her eyes and rests against him. Perhaps he's right, perhaps he isn't; she won't let him use it as an excuse, though.

"Go on," she encourages him gently. "Your son. What happened to him?"

Rumplestiltskin is silent for long moments, and then he begins to speak.


	40. Chapter 40

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle leans against the outer wall on the roof of the Dark Castle and stares out at the snow-covered lands.

It's too cold to be up here, really, although it's not snowing. Not yet, Belle amends, glancing up at the sky, and she sighs at the thought of yet more snow. Rumplestiltskin had spoken of being snowed in occasionally, before the snow had come at all, and Belle thinks it cannot be long before the snow piles up so high that the doors become impossible to use.

He has magic, of course, and could clear it if he wanted to; Belle could ask him to clear it, perhaps. But despite the tedium she feels at the never-ending blizzards, Belle doesn't quite _want_ to ask him to clear the snow drifts. It's a new experience for her, to see snow so deep as this, and she generally enjoys new experiences.

She puts a hand to her stomach. This, she thinks, will be an experience to relish. If she is allowed to experience it.

Rumplestiltskin had told her so much during the night, during the small hours of the morning. He'd sworn her to secrecy, and Belle has been his wife long enough to know the feel of magic in the air when she'd gladly made him that promise. He'd bound her by her word, and bound her by his magic, and Belle will never give up his secrets. A loyal wife, even if he can't quite trust that she'll keep his secrets without being bound in such a way. It is enough, Belle thinks, that he _wanted_ to share those secrets. For now, that's enough.

He'd told her things, last night, so very many things, and Belle knows it will take time to comprehend the whole of it. So many plans, wheels turning and things finally falling into place, and Belle doesn't know how she fits in. She doesn't know how her child – _their_ child – will fit in with his grand plans, his centuries-old aim.

Belle sighs, pulls her cloak a little tighter around herself. It's foolish to dwell on such things, and yet she can't seem to stop herself. Foolish because she knows there is nothing she could do or say to sway Rumplestiltskin from his path, even if she wished it. Foolish because nothing matters more to him than finding his son again.

Her own child matters less than to him than finding Baelfire again. And, Belle tells herself, she cannot blame him for that. The child within her is barely enough to be _called_ a child yet – conceived barely ten days ago. It's a thought, a whisper, a possibility. It's living and growing, changing her body already in the most subtle of ways, but it isn't a _child_, not quite. Not yet.

Baelfire has been a child for Rumplestiltskin for years; this child is not even in the world yet.

She doesn't blame him for it. She knows she matters to him, she knows he values her – at least a little, at least in some ways. In more ways than she had ever hoped to be valued, in a marriage. She is not unimportant to him, although she thinks everything must pale into insignificance into his ancient quest to find his son.

Belle lifts her hands, covers her face. This is fruitless. This is foolish. She is tangling herself into knots about things that are best left alone. His plans are set in motion; it will happen. He will make it happen. She, and her unborn child, may end up casualties of his plan or they may not. There is nothing she can do about it. He'd never planned for her, after all. She doesn't fit in, and she hadn't dared to question, last night, what would happen to her at the culmination of his ambitions.

She's been thinking about it all morning, and she must stop. She knows she must stop. She should go inside, make her way down to the warm kitchen and find lunch for herself. She should occupy herself with some task for the afternoon – preparing supper, or baking something sweet, or finding another room to clean.

She should distract herself with work. But Belle stands on the roof and leans against the wall and watches the trees move in the wind.

At last she has to move, because she's stiff with coldness, beyond shivering, and Belle can't bear to think of the look on Rumplestiltskin's face should he find her like this. He'll be disappointed, unhappy. Concerned.

Concerned, for she does mean _something_ to him – he does care for her at least a little. That thought comforts her, gives her the strength to move across the walkway back towards the door in the tower. She fumbles a little with the latch, her fingers numb, but at last she manages it, slips through and shuts the door firmly behind herself. It's warmer in the tower but only a little – only because the thick stone walls cut out the wind.

The kitchen will be warmer still, and Belle hurries as fast as she can down the winding steps. She knows her way well by now, down the hallways and along corridors without any wrong turns, and it isn't long before she reaches the bright, warm kitchen. The fire is blazing, the smell of fresh bread fills the room, making Belle realise how hungry she's got, how cold she is. She discards her cloak over the back of a chair, hurries to stand before the fire and holds out her hands to the warmth.

"There you are."

His hands slide around her waist from behind, and he buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. Belle smiles, covers his hands with her own, leans back against him.

"Here I am," she says. "Were you looking for me?" She tilts her head to one side as he nuzzles at her neck, smiles wider as he hums his pleasure, a vibration against her skin.

"So cold, my lady," he murmurs. "Where were you, then? Not outside?" As Belle had feared, he's disapproving, irritated by her foolishness. And yet his words bring her fresh comforts, for she remembers another day when she'd been on the roof, she remembers him saving her from falling. She remembers how he'd watched her, when she first arrived, to make sure she did not run from him.

He is no longer watching; that makes her happy. There is trust growing, here in this strange marriage. He trusts her now, when before he did not, could not. He trusts her not to flee, and he trusts her with his secrets.

Belle will do her best to be worthy of such trust.

"I was on the walkway, up on the roof," she tells him. He makes a sound, discontented, and Belle wriggles around in his arms, rests her hands on his shoulders. "I needed to think," she tries to explain. He watches her, narrowed eyes and a hint of a frown, and Belle offers a smile, tilts her head a little. "It wasn't too bad," she excuses herself. "It's not snowing. At the moment."

"At the moment," Rumplestiltskin echoes. "I suppose if a storm had come up, you'd have come in?"

"Of course." She lifts herself up on her toes, presses a kiss to his mouth. "I hope I'm sensible enough for that, at least."

"Hm." His frown fades, his lips quirk upwards in the barest of smiles. "I suppose you are. Well, how shall I warm you up?" His smile turns into a smirk, his eyes alight with mischief. "I'm sure I can think of a few ways."

"Lunch," says Belle with a laugh, shaking her head at him. "And a cup of tea." He pouts, deterred, and Belle bites her lip, lifts a hand to play with the ends of his hair. "Later, perhaps," she says softly, blushing a little as she says it. It feels daring, to suggest such a thing, but she doesn't think it's wrong, this wanting she has for her husband. She doesn't see how it can be wrong, not really.

"Later," he says, a promise full of darkness and intent, and he lowers his head, kisses her – gentle, soft, kissing for the sake of kissing rather than to lead to anything else. Belle wraps her arms around his neck and presses close to him, relishing the closeness, the comfort she gains from being with him like this.

She could never have imagined this, she thinks, and no matter where his path takes him, she will follow at his side, a loyal wife. Because she – she –

Rumplestiltskin pulls back, flicks a finger against her nose lightly. "Lunch, then," he says, and Belle pretends not to see the longing laid bare on his face for a moment. It sends a thrill down her spine, that momentary awareness that he wants her, just as she wants him. That she is wanted, by somebody as great and powerful as Rumplestiltskin.

She is wanted by him; even if her future is uncertain, she is wanted by him.

Belle pulls away then, embarrassed by her thoughts, and goes to prepare lunch for them both. Bread still warm from the oven, potatoes that have been baking all morning, butter and soft cheese to melt over the top. Rumplestiltskin seats himself at the table and watches her, and it's not quite uncomfortable but she's always aware of his gaze, even when her back is turned to him.

She joins him at the table when the meal is ready, sits opposite him and helps herself before pushing the dish of potatoes towards him a little. He inspects the potatoes, selects one, and adds a liberal amount of cheese.

"Do you have questions?" he asks her then, quiet and guarded. He busies himself with cutting up the potato, doesn't look at her now, and she thinks that's the only way he can ask the question – by avoiding her gaze.

Belle considers it carefully, but for all he's told her, for all the time she's spent this morning thinking about what he'd said during the night, there is only one question that she feels needs an answer. Only one thing more she needs to know.

"I think," she says slowly, "that I understand what you told me. But – you didn't plan for me. And," she adds, "you didn't plan for our child." He nods, just once, a jerk of his head. Confirmation, if she needed it, but she doesn't need it. She knows it's true. He's said as much. She takes a breath, asks her question. "What will happen to me?" she asks, and she's the one who can't look at him now, she's the one keeping her eyes on her plate. "To us?"

Rumplestiltskin sighs heavily. "That is a question I do not have the answer to yet," he admits, and it's clear he hates admitting it, hates admitting he doesn't know something.

"Will we be separated?" she asks, her voice small and choked, and she's trying not to show how much the thought upsets her – because it does upset her, the idea that she might be separated from her husband. She has grown to care for him in unexpected ways, wishes to remain with him, to be by his side as he continues his search for his son in that strange, unknown land he'd described to her.

Because he is her husband, and she is his wife. Because she cares for him more than she could ever have supposed and, she thinks, he cares for her in turn.

Even if he does not, yet, want the child they have created together.

"I think not," says Rumplestiltskin, and she looks up at him now, finds him thoughtful as he gazes at her. "There are some bonds," he says, "that even this curse will not be able to break."

"So will all married couples stay together?" she asks, curious now, intrigued by the workings of this incredible, intricate piece of magic he's working on. He senses it, he's amused by it; his lips quirk into a smile. It's infectious, and Belle can't help smiling back at him, the sadness of a moment before banished by his expression.

"I couldn't say," he tells her. "But…there may be ways to tie us together." Belle's hand slips from the table to her stomach, flat now but not for many weeks longer. "Yes," Rumplestiltskin murmurs. "The child, too." He offers her a thin smile, his lips pressed tightly together. "Do you imagine," he says, "that after spending centuries searching for my son, I would reject another child?"

"I don't know," Belle says, looking away from him. "You said –"

"Forgive me," he interrupts her. It's not something he normally does, and she's startled into silence. "I was cruel." Cruel and afraid, Belle thinks, but she won't say it. She wouldn't dream of berating him so, for she thinks he's suffered enough through his cowardice. "You surprised me," he adds. "There's not many can do that, dearie."

"I seem to do it often," Belle says, teasing a little, and he grins, sharp but pleased – pleased, she thinks, with the wife he has married. He is pleased with her, and she can't help but smile at the thought.

"Indeed," he says. "Forget what I said, hm?"

"Very well," says Belle. She means it; she will do her best to forget those hasty, cruel words he'd spoken when she'd first told him of her pregnancy. Resentment and bitterness are not things she wants in her life, and she will banish them as best she can. It will be easier, now she knows the story of his lost son, now that she knows a little more of the riddle that is Rumplestiltskin. Easier to forget the harsh words born of shock and fear, and easier to focus on the joy of what is to come – even though the future, her future, feels filled with so much uncertainty.

He will work to ensure they are together; Belle must be contented with that.

She has to ask one more question, though, and she speaks it before she can change her mind, before she can think better of it.

"You are pleased, then?" she asks him. "You are – you are contented, at least, that I'm with child?"

Rumplestiltskin looks at her, ancient and dark and full of strangeness, and Belle looks back, wills herself not to apologise for asking the question. She needs to know, for in all that he's said, for all he's asked forgiveness for suggesting she should destroy the life within her, he has not said that he's pleased about it. Not in so many words, and he is a man who deals in words, and so she needs to hear him say it – to know how he feels, for she thinks her own hope, her own optimism, may be colouring her perceptions of him.

"I am contented," he says at last, and Belle exhales, slumps back in her chair, more relieved than she had thought she would be. "Oh, dear one," Rumplestiltskin sighs then, "I am pleased." He rises, comes around the table, perches on the edge of it and reaches for her. He puts his hand to her stomach, gazes down at her and there's something in his expression that she can't quite understand. "I can feel it," he tells her. "The child, growing in you."

"Oh," Belle breathes, and she covers his hand with hers, wishes she could feel it as he does. "Oh, really?"

"Our child," he murmurs, and he smiles, a small thing, but soft and genuine. "A spark of life." Belle smiles too, lifts her hand to his face, watches as he turns into her touch. He has spent so long without touch, she supposes, and promises herself that she will freely offer these simple touches, these embraces, that mean as much to him as they do to her.

"I think I will have to kiss you now," Rumplestiltskin says then, his smile twisting into a mischievous smirk, "and let the lunch grow cold." He lifts his hand from her stomach, walks his fingers up across her chest and slips one finger beneath the neck of her dress. Belle's breath catches in her throat, and he hums happily, leans down and suits action to word.

He kisses her, and the food grows cold upon the table, but Belle doesn't care. She is contented, here with her husband, the strange man she married to save her village. She is contented, and more than that, she feels the beginnings of happiness – a happiness, she thinks, that will grow deep and strong, even though the future holds so much uncertainty.

Belle will be happy, here with him. No matter what the future brings, she will stay by his side, a loyal, steadfast wife. She will teach him that such a thing is not too much to expect, from someone who – someone who cares.

Belle thinks her mother would be proud of her. Belle is sure of it now, as she has never been sure of it before. She has made a beginning, here in this strange life with her strange husband. There have been mistakes; she has made many mistakes. She has let her fear guide her for too long. But she isn't afraid any longer – he has made her unafraid. Not a good beginning, she thinks, but the rest of her life is ahead of her still. It will not be easy, and there will be many trials ahead. But they have made a beginning, and she thinks her mother would be proud of her, of who she is becoming.

And then Rumplestiltskin distracts her from her thoughts by groping behind her back for the laces of her dress, and she puts away all thoughts of her mother.


	41. Chapter 41 - Epilogue

Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: T

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"Did you get what you needed?" Belle asks wearily, leaning heavily against the stone pillars as she makes her way down the main staircase. Rumplestiltskin is standing in the entrance hall below, his back to her, but he turns at the sound of her voice.

"You," he says accusingly, "are meant to be sleeping." He drops the cloak he's holding, lets it fall onto the table set in the middle of the hall, and moves with quick steps to stand at the bottom of the stairs, his hands held out for her.

"I couldn't," Belle says, and she reaches the final step, takes his hands and tries to smile at him. "I felt sick again," she admits, and he frowns, so deeply concerned for her. She's been so _ill_, with this pregnancy, struggling to eat and struggling even more to keep anything in her stomach. She's not sleeping well either, and she's growing exhausted from the need to rest and eat. He thinks it's because of his nature, his magic. He looks at her with guilt, sometimes, and she hates it. Belle's not so convinced about it, after exchanging letters with Laura, but she wouldn't like his guilt even if it were true.

"Some tea, perhaps," Rumplestiltskin says, and Belle smiles, manages to nod her head, although she's not enthusiastic about the prospect. The tea made from a particular kind of herbs is the only thing that seems to soothe her nausea, although she thinks it won't be long before she's sick of the taste of it.

Rumplestiltskin sighs, glances her over, his gaze lingering for a moment at the round curve of her belly. His concern melts into a smile then, secretive and pleased, and as always Belle feels a surge of fondness for him, for the private pleasure he gains from seeing her growing fat with his child.

"Did you get what you needed?" she asks him again, and the pleasure is dispelled; he smirks, self-satisfied in the extreme.

"Indeed," he says. "Poor Prince James was so desperate to find his lost love." He bares teeth, a malicious grin, but Belle is used to his glee, his malice, and is no longer afraid of him when he looks like this. "True love," he scoffs. "Well, it will serve my purpose, anyway. _If_ he finds Snow White in time."

"You know he will," Belle rebukes him. "You've planned this all so carefully." He nods his head, his gaze focused elsewhere, and she wonders what he's thinking about – whether it's Snow White and her prince occupying his thoughts, or his son, the eventual goal of all his plans. "Why do you scorn them?" she asks him. "True love is the most powerful magic. You've said it yourself."

"Yes, indeed," he says, almost snapping at her but not quite, stopping short of impatience, but Belle frowns, disliking it. "They're children," he adds, a little softer, focusing his attention back on her. "And far too naïve. But they are…necessary."

"James is older than me," Belle points out, and Rumplestiltskin grimaces, as if he dislikes comparing her to the prince whose cloak he has just acquired. "Well, it's true," Belle says, smiling at him. "If he's a child, what am I?"

"You are my wife," he says, scowling up at her. There is nothing Belle can say to that, and she looks down at their joined hands, still smiling, for she's pleased by the finality of his words, by the way he says it, as if there is nothing more important. "I got what I needed," he says. "And now I must – ah, but no. Tea."

"No, no," Belle protests. "I wouldn't keep you from your work."

"It can wait an hour," Rumplestiltskin says mildly. "You, on the other hand, look close to fainting." He giggles, and Belle rolls her eyes a little. "That wouldn't do at all," he says. "The great Rumplestiltskin, neglecting his wife? It wouldn't do, dearie."

"I'm not going to faint," Belle says, shaking her head at him. She is exhausted, but not feeling faint at all. She's hardly the fainting kind, anyway, and she's had to leave off wearing corsets, the usual cause of women's fainting fits. "Tea," she adds, "would be lovely. If you're sure your work can wait." She leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead. "But I'm not going to faint," she says, and he chuckles, releases her hands so he can press one of his to her stomach.

"I should hope not," he says, distracted now by whatever he feels beneath his hand. "She's restless," he murmurs. Belle smiles widely, delighted as always by him saying such things, and she covers his hand with hers.

"No wonder," she says, "with such a father. You," she enlarges when he lifts an eyebrow enquiringly, "hardly ever stand still."

"And you," he returns, "are clumsy. It's to be hoped our daughter won't inherit _that_." Belle laughs, shakes her head at him, and then takes his offered arm to descend down the last step. "Tea, then," he says. "And you'll try to eat, hm?"

"I will try," Belle promises, obedient to his wish, although she's not sure what there is in the larder to tempt her with, not when so much makes her feel so wretchedly sick. She lets him lead her across the hall, and he pauses for a moment at the table to make sure the cloak isn't at risk of falling. He treats it as if it's precious, and Belle knows it is; she knows that with the hair he'll find on it, he can create what he's been trying to create for many long years.

"Not long, now," she says softly.

"No," he says. "No, not long now."

* * *

Notes:

I owe a great debt of thanks to my beta-readers, ice_elf and pinkfairy727, as well as Laligin, who read it as well. Pinkfairy727 in particular has been invaluable throughout the process, which started all the way back in March and continued through to mid-August :)

I begin with a premise and an interest in how Belle went from being afraid to comfortable with Rumplestiltskin, something we didn't see on the show itself. I went with the idea that, in the pseudo-historical setting we see, wives were meant to be subordinate to their husbands and that Belle would assume, and would have been taught, that she must be so to her own husband, even if that husband is Rumplestiltskin. I wanted to try to explore how a different relationship with Rumplestiltskin, from the beginning, might alter the way Belle reacts to him. To examine how Belle might become bold and brave within that context, because 'do the brave thing, and bravery might follow' doesn't necessarily imply that she has always been as brave as she becomes. I wanted to look at how she might grow and change within a marriage, for better or for worse, and what might happen to make her truly unafraid of him. To explore how her relationship with him makes her brave, as I believe happened in the show. He enables her to become who she was meant to be, not who her society has always forced her to be. She is brave because of him, not despite him.

By doing so (however successfully or not!) I have shown a different Belle to the one we see and love in the show. But that's the joy of AU fics: they take the characters we love and explore how they would react and grow in situations other than the ones we're given in TV shows, books and movies.

A few of you have mentioned similarities to A Bed of Thorns. I can only say again that any similarities beyond the premise _are_ completely coincidental and unintentional.

Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, and particularly those of you who have reviewed (even those of you who have reviewed unsigned, and asked questions or raised points to which I have therefore been unable to reply :P). Some of you have really, really understood what I've been trying to do, and I'm glad about that :)


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